


A Society of Martlets (A Game of Hearts pt. 6)

by zmethos



Series: A Game of Hearts [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-03
Updated: 2018-03-29
Packaged: 2019-03-26 14:34:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 26,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13859754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zmethos/pseuds/zmethos
Summary: The murder of two men who resemble Sherlock and John sets them on the trail of a secret organization.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For those arriving late: these stories were written after the first series (season) of _Sherlock_ and therefore DO NOT REFLECT anything that came after. Sort of an alternate timeline.

LESTRADE STOOD IN the bedroom doorway and considered the two men in the bed. Not wanting to break the heavy silence by speaking, or even moving, it felt like all he could do was stand there and take in the scene.

One of them was taller and thinner than the other, with darker and messier hair and fairer skin. The second man was shorter, sturdy though not at all fat, hair lightened and skin shaded by time spent in the sun.

And they were both dead.

But whether they’d died there in bed together or had been placed there—just one of the many questions Lestrade would need to answer.

“I see you had the good sense to keep the team out until I got here.” Sherlock joined Lestrade in the doorway. “Who are they?”

But Lestrade was looking past the consulting detective expectantly. “Where’s your sidekick?”

“Not here,” said Sherlock as he stepped into the room. “Never mind, I’ll figure it out on my own.”

Lestrade forced himself to focus. “The one with his back to us is Benjamin Markham,” he said, indicating the taller and darker victim. “We haven’t ID’d the other one yet.”

“This is his flat?”

“His fiancée found them, of all things,” said Lestrade.

Sherlock approached the figures in the bed, and if he took note of the resemblance to himself and his flatmate, he didn’t bother to voice it. “Hours,” he said, his eyes running up what was visible of the bodies, as they were partially entangled in the bed sheets, “and not many. They died here, though, just like this.”

“How do you know?” Lestrade asked. It came out more sharply than he’d intended, his mind having drifted to other things again.

“Cadaveric spasm,” said Sherlock as he rounded the bed.

Lestrade’s eyes fell on the men’s hands. Markham’s left clutched the other man’s upper right arm in the telltale moment-of-death fashion. The unidentified man’s right hand was on Markham’s neck, as if caressing it, and the two men stared into one another’s eyes in a way that made Lestrade wish they _had_ been placed there, arranged like dolls, because it was somehow too terrible to contemplate their dying in such a way. Had they known? Suffered? Which one of them had died first, and had the other one had time to mourn or feel alone before following?

Lestrade shook himself out of his morbid turn of mind. He had been doing this job long enough not to be overly sentimental about these things, but he was still human enough that it bothered him more than he liked to admit.

“When did she call?” Sherlock asked. He was simultaneously typing something on his cell phone.

“An hour ago. And she’d last spoken to Markham about three hours before that. What are you doing?”

“Asking John to come by.” Sherlock put the phone away and began scanning the room’s mostly vacant white walls. “Moving out, I take it.”

“The wedding was only a month away,” said Lestrade. “He was in the process of moving his things to their new flat. You don’t bring him along as much these days,” the inspector added.

“He’s been busy.” Sherlock’s phone buzzed and he pulled it back out, checked it. “He’s on his way now, though, if you want a chance to catch up.”

“You think he’ll be helpful in this?” Lestrade asked.

Sherlock was bent over the bodies again now. “He can confirm a couple of my suspicions. This one worked in a kitchen of some sort.”

“What makes you say that?”

“If you’d actually come _look_ . . .”

Lestrade realized he’d remained in the doorway the entire time and wondered at his reluctance to enter the room. He didn’t usually show such resistance, though he was also accustomed to hanging back when his team was sweeping the scene. That was the most likely reason for his staying put, he supposed.

Now he took a step, two, stopped. He couldn’t bring himself to come any closer, was keenly aware of Sherlock’s appraising gaze.

When it was clear Lestrade was as close as he was going to get, Sherlock said, “He has flour in his hair.”

“That all?”

“Until we get a complete report.”

“Maybe they baked cookies first,” suggested Lestrade in a weak attempt at levity.

But Sherlock’s expression was a mixture of bewilderment and contempt. “It would smell like cookies in here, then, which it doesn’t.”

Lestrade opened his mouth to explain the joke but decided against it. “So he was in a kitchen.”

“Worked in one,” said Sherlock resolutely. “Just being in one doesn’t give a person many opportunities to get flour in their hair or . . .” he added, craning for a look at the hand on Markham’s neck, “dough under their nails.”

Sherlock stood and Lestrade turned at the sound of the flat’s front door squeaking open. “Sherlock? Lestrade?” John called in the tone of someone trying to find a person in a library—that is, wanting to be heard while also staying quiet.

“In here,” Lestrade called back. No use for silence now, was there? And yet the realization made him melancholy again. He began to wonder if he should take a holiday.

John appeared in the doorway and paused, much as Lestrade had done when he’d first arrived. The inspector was gratified to observe that John immediately recognized what he was seeing and had much the same reaction, a hesitancy to go any nearer.

“What is this?” John asked.

Sherlock squared his shoulders. “Come tell me what you see.”

Lestrade saw the way they locked eyes, and it suddenly occurred to him that Sherlock hadn’t called his flatmate for a second opinion at all. He’d called John to show him. But what did they perceive in this, Lestrade wondered? What did this tableau mean to them? Was it a taunt? A warning? Or just awful coincidence?  
John took his time coming to the side of the bed. “Suicide pact?” he asked, his voice thin.

“No note,” Sherlock told him.

They stared at one another across the bed, and Lestrade had the odd sense he was intruding somehow.

“Well,” John said briskly, dropping his gaze so that he appeared to be looking at the bodies and yet not seeing them at all, “not much by way of lividity yet, so they haven’t been dead long.”

Sherlock nodded his approval.

“No signs of physical trauma, so . . . Poison?” John suggested.

“Seems most likely,” Sherlock agreed. “Toxicology will need to bear it out.”

“If that one worked in a kitchen,” Lestrade put in, “could he have done it?”

“Unlikely, unless we find a note,” Sherlock insisted. “People don’t spend a quantity of time planning something like this without pouring their insipid feelings and twisted excuses out for everyone to read. They think because they care we all do.

“You should find out who he is,” Sherlock told Lestrade. “If there’s no note, maybe he has a blog we can look at.”

Lestrade did not fail to observe the way John flinched at this statement, and moved by something indefinable, the inspector half snapped, “Well, if anything should happen to you and John, I’ll be sure to check yours straight away.”

There was a long, tense string of minutes during which the three of them said nothing and refused to meet one another’s eyes. Then Sherlock asked, “Anything else, John?”

John gave the kind of shrug that comes with being resigned to having nothing unique to offer. He was there to state the obvious, to trail behind the shiny Sherlock Express like an unnecessary caboose whose only potential function was to signal the end of a train of thought. “Only that this one is or was married.”

So the doctor was surprised when his statement garnered reaction from the other two (living) men in the room. Lestrade said, “Really?” while Sherlock immediately leaned in close to Markham’s hand, almost at once uttering, “Very good, John,” in a tone of grudging admiration. He straightened once more. “You said he had a fiancée?” he asked Lestrade.

“That’s right. Madeline Dawson. She was the one who called; they’re questioning her now.”

“She’s not a suspect,” said John in hopeful and sympathetic tones, his inbred streak of chivalry coming to the fore, and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“I would think she might be,” the detective countered, “under the circumstances.”

“I’ll let you know what we find out,” Lestrade told them. As it was, he hadn’t had any good reason to call Sherlock on the case, aside from the obvious, the one his team would surely comment on the moment they entered the room (and it was high time he got them in besides, but he wanted Sherlock and John gone first).

Benjamin Markham and his as-yet unnamed companion bore a notable likeness to Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.

***

“WHAT ARE YOU doing here?” Anderson demanded as John passed him on the stairs, clearly in a hurry to leave. Sherlock followed at a more sedate pace, but neither he nor John answered. “You better not have contaminated my scene!” Anderson called after them as the door to the building swung shut behind their exit.

On the street, Sherlock was content to walk several steps behind his flatmate, at least until it became evident that John didn’t have any idea where he was going, that he was just blindly pushing ahead, putting distance between himself and Markham’s flat. Sherlock might have let him go, but it occurred to him there was a real chance John might only stumble into traffic, and so exerting some energy, Sherlock closed the gap between them until he was close enough to take John by the arm. When John whirled on him, seemingly prepared to swing, Sherlock readied himself to block the blow. But John stopped short, eyes wide and body trembling with the unexpended adrenaline.

“John.” It was no use asking what was wrong, Sherlock knew; this afternoon was only another item in what had become a steadily growing list.

John only turned his head, looking everywhere but at his flatmate. “I should go back to the clinic. I had a few more patients to see.”

Sherlock released John’s arm, feeling even as he did so that it was somehow a mistake. The look John flashed him confirmed this, though Sherlock was at a loss as to _why_ it was the wrong answer. He never seemed to have the right one when it came to interpersonal relationships, and it only got worse when he dared to get closer. Reflexively, Sherlock took a step backward only to be rewarded with another glare from John.

All at once Sherlock was angry with John for being so unfair; after all, John knew his handicaps. And at the same moment, John appeared to realize he was being unfair because he said, “Or maybe we should just go home.” He began to look around again, this time with purpose as he attempted to figure out where, in the scheme of things, they were.

Sherlock, with his innate sense of direction, knew exactly where they were. “This way,” he said, though he didn’t start walking until he was sure John would walk with him. He was sorry to see that John showed some reluctance. But maybe that was only because they were going back the way they’d come, closer to the crime scene? “It spooked you,” remarked Sherlock, and this time the look John gave him was something akin to exasperation.

“Nothing spooks you, I’m sure.”

This wasn’t entirely true, though Sherlock would have been hard pressed to describe the things that did unnerve him. None of the ones that sprang to mind were corporeal, for one thing; two dead bodies, regardless of their similarities to John and himself, were far from ‘spooky.’ Intriguing, yes. Frightening, no.

If it had been John, on the other hand, yes, that was the sort of thing to stop Sherlock cold. As for himself, if he were to die, then he was selfish enough to want John with him. But these scenarios were only hypothetical, even highly unlikely now that they were on their guards.

So maybe it _had_ been a warning. But from whom?

Sherlock was so busy musing, he didn’t realize he hadn’t answered John. Not that John found this surprising. Sherlock was not given to comforting words or actions; his mind was almost certainly focused on the facts of what they had just witnessed, what it might mean, how best to solve the riddle. John knew from experience that he was on his own from here until it was all over, or at least until Sherlock next found him useful in some way.

_I should have gone back to the clinic_ , John thought. What would he do at the flat except fixate on what he’d seen, or rather what he’d tried very hard not to see?

As it turned out, Sherlock saved him the trouble of finding a way to occupy himself. John followed his flatmate up the stairs, pushed the door shut behind as he entered, and was half out of his jacket when Sherlock pulled him into a fervent kiss that so startled John he failed to return it. Instead he stepped away, slid his jacket the rest of the way off, and said reprovingly as he hung it, “Those two men are dead.”

“Yes, but we’re not.”

“It’s not a zero-sum game, Sherlock. We didn’t trick the Grim Reaper by tossing a couple of counterfeits under His nose.”

Sherlock was already turning away, evidently having lost interest. “I was only trying to make you feel better.”

Immediately John was sorry, then suspicious. In the five weeks since they’d first begun negotiating this new aspect of their relationship, John had come to the conclusion that—as with eating and sleeping—Sherlock showed affection in cycles that were directly related to whether he was absorbed in a case. In short, John was a pleasant way to pass the time when Sherlock had nothing better to do. At least, that was how John understood it.

But if that were strictly true, Sherlock’s actions now did not make sense. He had a case, and by all the unspoken and unwritten rules that framed the way Sherlock worked, he should be completely engaged with that and not at all interested in his flatmate, who had no valuable insight to offer at the moment.

Unless Sherlock had been sincere about making John feel better?

Or was possibly more shaken than he was letting on and wanted to make _himself_ feel better . . .

John looked to where Sherlock had taken up station in front of his computer. There was a way to test his theory, John reflected. He unfastened the topmost button of his shirt and asked in as conversational a tone as he could muster, “Anything useful?”

“Markham was—” Sherlock glanced up, paused. “What are you doing?”

John had moved on to the next button. “Just going to go change. You know I hate these shirts; I only wear them for the clinic.” It was a reasonable enough answer, and not a lie, not really.

“You’re a tease,” accused Sherlock, and it was clear to John that he now had his flatmate’s full attention as the third button gave way.

“It’s not a show,” John told him, but he was unable to completely hide his gratification.

“No?” Sherlock stood, came to stand directly in front of John. “Then you wouldn’t invite audience participation, I suppose.”

“Don’t you have work to do?” murmured John.

“Yes,” Sherlock admitted, forthright as ever, and John sighed.

“Then why are you bothering with me?”

“You’re not a bother, John. Or if you are, it’s only in the best possible way.”

It was, up to then, the nicest thing Sherlock had said to him in the context of their relationship—which wasn’t saying much, but John reckoned he should take what was offered in the spirit he hoped it had been intended. Yet he couldn’t stop himself from saying, “I’d hate to distract you.”

Sherlock leaned in close to John’s ear. “Please distract me.”

_Well_ , John reasoned, _he did say ‘please.’_


	2. Chapter 2

“WHAT MADE YOU notice the ring?” Sherlock asked.

As had become his custom, John lay with his back to his flatmate. He had been close to drifting off, and it took him a minute to understand the question. “There wasn’t a ring,” he finally answered, half mumbling and hoping that would be the end of it so he wouldn’t have to think about it and could sleep.

“The lack of ring, then,” said Sherlock in vexation.

John sighed and rolled onto his back. Sherlock had switched gears now; he was focused on the case and there would be no deterring him. “I don’t know,” he said. “I noticed the hand, how it was clutching . . . And then I saw the lines or something. On the ring finger.”

“Benjamin Markham was an architect,” said Sherlock, eyes trained on the ceiling. “Didn’t spend a lot of time outdoors, was pretty pale as a consequence. There was no discoloration on the skin of his finger, and those lines were practically invisible.”

John wasn’t sure what Sherlock was getting at. “Are you . . . _angry_ that I noticed? Upset that I saw something you didn’t? What?”

Sherlock was quiet for so long, John began to think he wasn’t going to respond. But then the detective said, “Suppose you buy a car—”

“Sorry, what do cars have to do with anything?” interjected John.

But Sherlock ignored the question. “And then you start to notice how many other cars there are on the road that are just like yours. Same make, same model, same color . . .”

“Are we still talking about the ring?” John wondered.

“What makes you notice?” Sherlock asked him.

“I . . . don’t know,” John admitted. He was too tired for trick questions and wished his companion would come to the point.

But Sherlock only said, “Hm.”

John waited, and when no additional insight was forthcoming, he asked, “Is that it?”

“Hm,” Sherlock said again, but a moment later he sat up. “Lestrade.”

“Sorry?” Rings, cars, Lestrade . . . John couldn’t pretend to keep up with Sherlock’s erratic way of thinking.

Sherlock threw off the blanket that covered them. “Get dressed, John, quickly.”

Alarmed now, John got up and went in search of his clothes. The trousers were easy enough to find, but his shirt . . . Where had that ended up? He was thinking he might just go find a new one when the knock sounded.

As he finished buttoning up his own shirt, Sherlock glanced over his shoulder at John, who could only shrug. They were in Sherlock’s room, after all; he had no options.

“Sherlock?” Lestrade had opened the door to the flat just a bit so he could stick his head ’round for a look.

“Never asks for me,” John muttered.

“He asked after you this afternoon,” said Sherlock.

“He did?”

But Sherlock had already exited. He started to pull the door closed behind him, but stopped when he stepped on John’s discarded shirt. Bending to pick it up, he tossed it into his room, then proceeded to shut the door.

Lestrade came the rest of the way into the flat. “Sorry,” he said, “were you asleep?”

“No. You have news, I take it.”

“A name for the second man,” said Lestrade. “David Lumley. Turns out he’s a baker. Or was, rather.”

“A baker and an architect,” said Sherlock. “That’s an interesting pairing.”

“What’s interesting is that we can’t seem to find any connection between the two of them. Markham’s fiancée never heard of or met any David Lumley.”

“Well, I would hardly think Markham would introduce one to the other,” Sherlock remarked.

“None of Markham’s coworkers, none of his family members . . . And the same goes for Lumley. None of his friends or family ever heard of Benjamin Markham,” said Lestrade. “We’ve only just started going through their personal belongings, but so far there are no pictures, nothing. If they were hiding it, they went to a lot of trouble.”

“Or maybe there was nothing to hide,” Sherlock said. “Maybe it was just . . .”

“A hook-up, I think they call it these days,” said John as he emerged from Sherlock’s room, his cheeks flushed. But Lestrade had suspected for some time anyway, so what difference did it make now?

Lestrade’s eyes went from Sherlock to John and back again, but he didn’t miss a beat. “What, Markham liked the looks of Lumley’s pastries? From everything we’ve heard, it’s out of character for him.”

“Did you ask Dawson about the missing ring?” Sherlock asked.

“She didn’t know anything about it. Said she’d never seen him wear one.”

“Have you found one?” asked John.

Lestrade shook his head.

“What killed them?” asked Sherlock.

“Toxicology won’t be done for a while yet,” Lestrade told them as he moved toward the door. “Just thought I’d let you know what we’ve found out so far.”

Sherlock was aware of Lestrade’s true reason for stopping by, and he was somewhere between flattered and irritated by it. “Well,” he said now, “it’s little enough to go on, but we’ll see what we can find out. What’s the name of Lumley’s bakery?”

“Dana’s. He owned it, named it for his little sister. Pretty popular, too, from what everyone says.” Lestrade opened the door. “If you learn anything useful . . .”

“Evening, Inspector,” said Sherlock. It was a clear dismissal, and Lestrade left without another word.

For a long moment after the door had closed, neither Sherlock nor John moved or spoke. John waited, mentally preparing for the onslaught he was sure was coming. Sherlock wouldn’t yell; that wasn’t his way. But John was convinced his companion was about to turn to him and say something cutting or snide, something designed to both showcase his displeasure and put John in his place.

It hadn’t been an uncalculated risk on John’s part; he’d thought about it a bit before coming out of Sherlock’s room. To John’s way of thinking, Lestrade was no real idiot (though Sherlock might disagree), and what reason would the DI have to care about their relationship? Lestrade didn’t strike John as a gossip. They weren’t setting themselves up for any kind of ridicule from him. And if all those arguments didn’t work, John reasoned his being in Sherlock’s room was only circumstantial evidence anyway.

John was armed with all this, so when Sherlock did finally turn to look at him and merely asked, “What would you do, John, if you had only one, maybe two hours to live?” he was almost disappointed. And very much thrown off his game.

“Call my sister?” John guessed, but he knew this wasn’t true. He would never waste his last hours on earth on the phone with Harry. “Why? What would you do?”

Sherlock didn’t reply. His eyes darted around the flat as if reading something in everything he saw.

“Visit your mum, maybe?” John suggested.

“The drive is over two hours in itself, John, I’d be dead before I got there.”

“Mycroft then?”

But Sherlock was moving for the computer now. “Oolong,” he said as he sat down.

“Pardon?” asked John, uncertain what this pronouncement had to do with dying.

“You were going to make tea, weren’t you?”

“I was going to shower, actually,” said John, though he hadn’t really thought about it; he only wanted not to be doing what Sherlock anticipated him doing. Though if someone had asked him why this was, he wouldn’t have had a good answer.

“Make the tea first,” Sherlock directed as he began typing.

John felt his hackles rise. “No,” he said, and only just stopped himself from stomping his foot like a child. How was it that Sherlock could so easily bring out the worst in him?

Sherlock stopped working and looked over, visibly surprised.

“You have no idea why I’m angry, do you?” John asked him.

Checking his mental spreadsheet, Sherlock failed to come up with an exact answer, so he rounded to the nearest whole number—that is, what seemed the most likely explanation, though it didn’t precisely add up. “Because I want tea?”

“Then make yourself some tea,” John told him. “I’m going to shower.”

Sherlock plugged John’s response into the equation. “You’re upset because I wanted _you_ to make the tea,” he deduced, even as John stalked off toward the bathroom.

“You’re almost as brilliant as they say you are,” John called back to him.

Sherlock considered. He wanted to work on the case more than he wanted tea. And John could always make the tea after his shower. Finding this resolution sound, Sherlock turned his attention back to the computer. He was scrolling through old news stories when John returned, the smell of his soap and shampoo causing a momentary disruption in Sherlock’s ability to focus.

This was, Sherlock was learning, the chief difficulty in having someone like John in almost constant proximity—an inability to get as much done as quickly. Things he would have ignored in any other person held weight and meaning where John was concerned.

Sherlock liked to think of himself as a disciplined person, but his impulsive streak had been known to cut through his self-control. On occasion. And what was delightful about John was that he seemed to have very little awareness of his effect on people, that afternoon’s strip tease notwithstanding. Now here he was, standing next to the computer chair, clean and sweet smelling, and still a bit damp so that his henley stuck to him in wonderfully interesting ways.

“Huh,” John said now. “There it is.”

Sherlock forced himself to rededicate his attention to the computer screen. The story displayed there was from over two years before, detailing the opening of some prestigious art gallery in a spectacular new building that had been designed by Benjamin Markham. There were photos from the fête, including one of Markham and the gallery owner. Each of them held flutes of champagne, and clearly visible on Markham’s left ring finger was a gold ring.

Sherlock felt something cold run through him, and after a minute of staring at the image, he pushed away from the computer, stood, and went into the kitchen to make tea.

“Can’t really see it that well,” said John, still peering at the monitor. “Maybe get a copy of the photo from the paper? Assuming it means anything. Maybe it’s nothing.” John came to realize he was only talking to fill the silence and was starting to think the more he said the stupider he sounded. “What are you doing?”

“Making tea. And toast,” Sherlock decided, going in search of bread. Did they have any?

John watched for a minute, unsure whether to offer to help. He had told Sherlock to make his own tea, after all. But his flatmate was clearly agitated; maybe it was only fair for John to handle the domestic chores so that Sherlock could concentrate on his work?

When he could no longer stand it, John walked over and removed the bread from the toaster before it could burn. “Are you sure you don’t want something more substantial?” he asked. “I’ll order something in if you’re hungry.

“Do you want the jam, then?” John went on when Sherlock didn’t answer. Without waiting for a response, he went to the refrigerator to find the strawberry preserves. Sherlock accepted them without so much as a thank you, which wasn’t terribly surprising, but John had the sinking feeling that the detective’s moodiness had been brought on by more than his need to focus on his work, or even any lingering jealousy that John had been the first to spot the ring. Something else was at the root of Sherlock’s strange behavior.

But it would be useless to ask what was the matter. John would have to find another way in.

Sherlock, meanwhile, had poured two cups of tea. He left one on the counter and took the other back to the computer, along with a plate bearing his two slices of toast.

John stared at the steaming mug. He didn’t even like oolong that much; he preferred Darjeeling. Shouldn’t Sherlock know that by now?

Taking a deep breath, John picked up his tea and took a seat on the sofa. He picked up the paper—no idea what day, but it hardly signified—and flipped sightlessly through it for a few minutes before asking, “Learn anything interesting?”

“The cars, John,” said Sherlock, his voice flat and monotonous. “You see them because, consciously or subconsciously, you are looking for them.”

John had no idea what Sherlock was talking about, and all at once he was too tired to care. He tossed aside the paper and said, “I’m going to bed.”

“It’s early,” Sherlock remarked.

“Yes, well, it’s been a long day,” said John.

Sherlock didn’t argue, didn’t ask for John’s input or suggest that he stay. This, somehow, was worse than a dismissal in John’s mind. It tasted of disregard. And though John felt he should probably be used to it by now, he could never bring himself not to take it personally.

But as John turned his steps toward his room so that he might sulk in peace, Sherlock said, “You.”

John paused, wondering if he were being accused of something. “Me what?”

Sherlock’s eyes remained trained on whatever he was reading on the computer. “If I only had two hours to live, I would come find you. I would want to spend them with you.”

If John had been an impulsive man, he might have crossed the room, grabbed Sherlock, and dragged him off to bed without any hesitation. He wanted to. And there was something to be said for positive reinforcement.

But doctors and soldiers cannot afford to be rash. Even when they must act and react swiftly, it is always with thought and precision. There are guidelines. This often determines the difference between life and death.

And John had no guidelines for this situation. He was at a loss. And so he stood there rather inanely while Sherlock typed and searched and gathered information, seemingly oblivious to John’s turmoil. It was as if Sherlock had already forgotten what he’d said. Or maybe it had been a simple observation on his part, void of consequence.

This wasn’t life and death, but it counted, John thought. Sherlock had chosen him over his family (not that it was saying much; in John’s experience, Sherlock would choose most anything over his family). And it was only a theoretical situation. But John felt sure it had cost Sherlock something to admit a moment of sentiment, and now he was attempting to bury it under a mountain of work.

“Sherlock,” said John. If he could get his flatmate to look at him, maybe he’d be able to discern the deeper feelings involved, if there were any.

But Sherlock didn’t look. He only said, “Mm,” in an absent-minded sort of acknowledgement that he’d heard and recognized his name. And so John was left to wonder whether this was avoidance on Sherlock’s part, or if the moment really had passed.

_If I make the mistake of caring, will it save you?_

It was worth a shot.

“Sherlock,” John said again, a bit more sternly. He was rewarded with a turn of the head, though the eyes remained on the computer screen a little longer, and it was with obvious reluctance and effort that Sherlock unfastened his gaze from his work and directed it toward John.

If his flatmate had looked angry or irritated, John would have dropped the issue. But Sherlock’s expression was one of apprehension, and John was motivated to put him at ease, if only in terms that sidestepped the tender emotional underbelly. “I want my two hours,” he said.

Sherlock blinked; whatever he’d expected John to say, this clearly wasn’t it. “What?”

“You heard me,” John told him. He wasn’t sure he could bring himself to say it again. “Two hours. Where and how do you want me?”

Sherlock’s eyes began to glitter as he came to understand they were playing a kind of game. But then his gaze darted back to the computer. “I have work to do.”

“So you want me to help you with your work?”

“This isn’t just for me, John,” said Sherlock. “If . . . what happened was a threat of some kind, then it’s in both our interests to figure out who did it and why.”

John nodded. “And two hours might make all the difference,” he added in an infuriatingly reasonable tone.

“Hours add up,” Sherlock insisted.

“Well, I wouldn’t want to exceed my daily ration of your valuable time,” said John. And could he honestly have expected any different? Sherlock’s work came first; John knew this, couldn’t fathom what had made him test the boundaries when he was destined to come away disappointed. Without waiting for a response, he went to his room. Turned out the light. Lay down. As Sherlock had pointed out, it was early yet, and John wasn’t at all sleepy. But he didn’t feel like doing anything else, either, so he just lay there.

He must have dozed off anyhow because he awoke with a start when the door to his room opened. Immediately John wondered what could be wrong. Or had Sherlock discovered something of import in his research, something he needed to tell him about? As a rule, Sherlock never came to John’s room after John had already turned in; if they didn’t go to bed together, they slept separately. This was especially true when Sherlock was absorbed in his work. As had been verified yet again that evening, the detective’s attention to John waned as his interest in a case waxed.

John waited for the light to go on, although Sherlock surely knew he was awake. Thanks to his military conditioning, John was a light sleeper, could be made alert in a matter of seconds. Not something he enjoyed—he preferred to wake more gradually—but it had proven to be a useful skill since meeting Sherlock.

But the light didn’t go on. Instead, John felt the blanket lift and Sherlock slide into bed beside him. He smelled clean, must have showered. John jumped slightly when Sherlock threw an arm over him (his companion was not a known cuddler), gave a tiny sigh, and murmured, “It’s a martlet.”

Once again, John hadn’t the least clue what Sherlock was talking about. “Is that supposed to turn me on?”

Sherlock laughed softly against John’s ear. “Does it?”

John could tell from Sherlock’s voice that his flatmate was halfway asleep already. After hours of feeding his curiosity, he’d satisfied something in himself—something John never would be able to—and could rest, if only for a while.

John wanted to ask him why he was there, but he didn’t want to spoil things. It was nice to have Sherlock there, warm and drowsy, even if it meant that John was himself now wide awake. So instead John asked, “What’s a martlet?”

“Bird,” Sherlock slurred. It seemed to John that he started to say more, but the wave of slumber crested over him before he could manage it.

This was fine, then, John told himself. Sherlock might sleep for twenty minutes, or he might sleep for twelve hours, but it was all fine. There would be more hours after those, which (the day’s events reminded him) was more than some people ever got. And John was determined that at least two of them would belong to him.


	3. Chapter 3

SHERLOCK REQUIRED SPACE when he slept. Not because he moved around; when sleeping, he was like a stone dropped into a riverbed, unmoving until some current of wakefulness swept along to dislodge him. It was more that the notion of having someone wrapped around him while he was all but unconscious was nightmarish to him. On the short list of things that spooked him, this was near the top.

But Sherlock was beginning to understand that John needed something more from him. And John was safe enough to experiment with. So after exhausting himself with research on the case, Sherlock had showered, put on his pajamas, and gone to John’s room. In an attempt to maintain some control over the situation, Sherlock had anchored John with his arm; John was sometimes a fitful sleeper.

The test had been designed to please John, or at least placate him, but Sherlock found it remarkably easy to fall asleep despite their contiguity. Still, when he opened his eyes in the early hours of the following morning, Sherlock was momentarily confused. In part because he’d awoken with the thought, _Martlets!_ and a sudden desire to go look at the pile of old post that they’d been avoiding the past few weeks. But also because there was something warm pressed against him, which was not usual in his experience. Not unpleasant, but strange. It bore consideration, but Sherlock had more pressing matters to attend to, so he began to disentangle himself.

John’s eyelids lifted a fraction. “Sherlock?”

“Go back to sleep,” Sherlock told him.

John closed his eyes again and rolled into the warm spot Sherlock had vacated. Sherlock suffered a moment of pique that his companion hadn’t put up more of a fight to keep him from leaving, then switched his mental focus back to the task at hand.

While Sherlock had no great love for sleeping, he sometimes found it valuable as a tool. After hitting the wall the night before, unable to locate the source of or a reason for the bird on Markham’s ring, Sherlock had opted to take a break so he could start fresh the next day. More often than not, the computer that was his brain continued to run in the background while he rested, and he could usually count on it to supply him with useful data upon waking. This morning it had not disappointed him.

The living area was as much a mess as it ever was, meaning John could never find anything, but Sherlock knew exactly where things were. God forbid it ever get organized because then he would lose track of everything. The recent post was on Sherlock’s desk—well, and there were a few envelopes stacked on his work table. Those were the ones that required responses. The old post, though, the stuff from weeks before was on the bookcase. Both Sherlock and John had made half-hearted attempts to poke through it, but now it generally served as postmodern art.

 _That must be the most fascinating piece of mail you’ve ever received_ , Irene Adler had said at the time. And if Sherlock’s memory served, she might unwittingly have been correct.

He flipped through the pile, loose dust set adrift by the motion, until he came to the one he sought. Yes, the return address featured exactly the symbol from Markham’s ring: a crest featuring a martlet over a castle tower. There was no name or street, only the emblem. It meant nothing to Sherlock; the envelope hadn’t even been opened.

Clearly he’d missed something.

And whomever he’d neglected was determined to get his attention.

Well, they had it now. He unsealed the envelope and removed the thick sheet of stationery inside. It was embossed with the same crest.

_Be aware.  
Martlets are tireless; are you?  
You have two choices: succeed or fail.  
Bell._

There was nothing more. No signature. Unless “Bell” was meant to be the sender?

Sherlock held the paper up so that the early morning light from the windows could catch it. Nothing irregular about the watermark.

“What’s that?” John asked, as he came shuffling out of his room.

“I thought you went back to sleep.”

“Tried. Couldn’t.”

Sherlock had turned his attention back to the envelope. Not only was there no return name or address, there was no mark. It had never been mailed; had to have been hand delivered.

No use wracking his brain over it; that had been the week he’d seen John through drug withdrawal. Nothing else had been on Sherlock’s radar during that time.

There were decided drawbacks to having affection for a person, Sherlock noted.

Sherlock supposed he could ask Mrs. Hudson if she remembered anything, but he wasn’t convinced he could rely on anything she might say.

John had drawn closer and was frowning thoughtfully at the page in his flatmate’s hand. “That’s a martlet?”

“Mm. Old heraldry mark.”

“Family crest of some sort?”

“That’s what I thought, but I haven’t been able to locate any family with this coat of arms.”

“And I’m sure you’ve checked all of them,” John said wryly.

Sherlock spared him a glance. “In the absence of other evidence, there’s only one person to ask.”

“Lestrade?” John guessed. “A librarian? Someone who has spent his entire life studying the peerage as a hobby?”

“What? No,” said Sherlock. “Though that last one comes close.” He refolded the letter and slid it back into the envelope. “Get dressed, if you intend to come along.”

“Breakfast?” John suggested hopefully. His stomach was making him keenly aware he hadn’t had dinner the night before.

“Later. I want to catch Mycroft before he goes into his office.”

John thought about declining to go. Not only did he want breakfast sooner rather than later, he had work at the clinic at midday covering someone’s shift. And Mycroft made him uncomfortable besides.

It was never anything Mycroft said; the older of the Holmes brothers had all of the social graces the younger lacked. It was the looks he gave John that made the doctor want to fidget like a schoolboy. Sherlock had led his brother to believe John was his lover long before it had been true, and John imagined this had much to do with the way Mycroft stared at him. As if John should know better, even if Sherlock didn’t.

And now that it _was_ true . . .

“I might just stay here, I think,” said John.

Sherlock had been headed toward his own room to change into day clothes, but he stopped with a frown. “Why?”

John suspected Sherlock knew why, but all he said was, “I’m hungry. And I’m still waking up. And I have work in a bit.”

“You can wake up in the cab, we’ll eat at Mycroft’s, and we’ll be done well before you need to be to work. Get dressed.”

John was left standing in the living area, his mind void of excuses. Raising a fuss would only set an unpleasant tone for the day, and he didn’t feel like dealing with one of Sherlock’s moods on top of everything else. So after a brief moment of reflection, and a promise to himself that next time he would put his foot down, he went to comply.

***

IT WAS EARLY yet, the edges of the sky slowly turning from pearl grey to blue in advance of what looked to be a lovely April day. That was how John saw it, staring out the window of the cab. He wondered if Sherlock ever noticed these things? But asking was likely only to earn him disparagement.

He turned and found Sherlock watching him. John lifted his eyebrows in an unspoken question, and Sherlock asked, “Feeling more awake?”

“It’s nice out,” John remarked, testing the waters.

“Good weather wakes you up?”

John sighed. At least it hadn’t been out-and-out mockery, and the question itself sounded sincere enough. “It’s just pleasant is all,” John replied. “Spring . . .”

Sherlock looked at him as if he’d gone daft, so John dropped the subject, grateful for once that they were nearly to Mycroft’s. But then Sherlock murmured, “The uncertain glory of an April day.”

“What’s that from?” John asked.

Sherlock had turned his attention to his own window. “Shakespeare, I think. Mum would know. Here we are.” He threw open his door, leaving John to scramble after him.

He caught up with Sherlock in the corridor outside Mycroft’s flat. “Should have kept my key,” the detective muttered after trying the knob and finding it locked.

“Or you could just knock like most people,” John suggested.

But Sherlock was pulling something from his pocket. “Luckily, I came prepared.”

“You’re not breaking in?!”

“Why not? He does it to us all the time.” Sherlock opened the kit and selected a tool. “You’d think he’d have better security,” he said as he bent to the knob.

John couldn’t argue; it did seem lax of Mycroft to have a lock that could be picked. Nerves taut, John glanced up and down the corridor.

“Relax, John,” said Sherlock. “His is the only flat on this floor.”

“Doesn’t mean somebody won’t—” John began.

Sherlock straightened as the door sprang open. “You wanted breakfast, didn’t you?” he asked John as he entered.

John had to admit, the smells wafting from the flat were mouth-watering. But then, hungry as he was, it didn’t take much to make his stomach rumble. Reluctantly, he followed Sherlock inside.

Sherlock made directly for the kitchen, which featured a nook with a glass table and wrought-iron chairs. A plump, brown-haired woman in a grey uniform gave a yelp when she saw him. “Just me, Daisy,” Sherlock told her as he took a seat, gesturing for John to do the same.

“Mr. Sherlock, you did give me a scare!” Daisy scolded. “Is Mr. Holmes expecting you?”

“No. But John is going to faint if we don’t feed him, so if you wouldn’t mind . . .”

Daisy’s dark eyes flicked toward John, as if to assess the truth of Sherlock’s words. She evidently found them credible because she wasted no time pulling together two full plates of eggs, toast and sausage along with two mugs of tea. “Probably not eating proper at your place,” she said as she set the drinks down.

“Probably not,” Sherlock agreed, though John noticed that his companion made no motion to touch his food, instead picking up the newspaper that was folded on the tabletop in front of one of the vacant chairs.

John didn’t let Sherlock’s disinclination stop him from eating, however, and he’d already made it halfway through his meal by the time Mycroft emerged. The older Holmes paused, pinning first his brother and then John with an indecipherable gaze before taking a seat. Daisy promptly set his plate and cup in front of him, and Sherlock raised his brows. “How’s the diet?”

Mycroft scowled. “Are you here because your cupboards were bare?”

Sherlock removed the envelope from inside his jacket and dropped it next to Mycroft’s plate. “What is this?”

Mycroft’s gaze landed on the emblem emblazoned in the corner. “It’s a martlet over a castle tower,” he said dismissively, picking up his fork.

“I know that,” said Sherlock. “What does it mean? Who is it from?”

Mycroft sighed, set down his fork and picked up the envelope. He removed the letter and skimmed it. “It’s an initiation letter,” he said and set it aside once more.

“Into what?” Sherlock asked.

“I can’t say,” said Mycroft.

“Can’t? Or won’t?”

John’s eyes traveled between the two brothers as a growing sense of unease settled over him. Suddenly the thought of eating any more made him nauseous.

“Do you remember when you were eight?” Mycroft asked abruptly. Sherlock gave a small shake of his head, though whether this meant he didn’t remember or didn’t want to talk about it was unclear. “You told us you wanted to be a saint,” Mycroft went on. “Mummy was terrified you were going to nail yourself to something, or set yourself on fire or some such.”

“She would have loved that,” said Sherlock. “Would have suited her sense of drama. But what does any of that have to do with this?”

Mycroft held his brother’s gaze but didn’t answer, and after a minute Sherlock looked away, lips pressed together in what John knew to be a token of his frustration and irritation. After another long pause, Sherlock turned again to Mycroft and asked, “Is John in any danger?”

John felt his cheeks grow warm as Mycroft turned his level gaze on him. “You’re asking questions you already know the answers to, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, his tone laced with disappointment. “Think about what happened to Benjamin Markham and his friend and tell me: do you think the good doctor here is in danger?”

John was tempted to remind them that he happened to be in the room; there was no need to discuss him as if he weren’t.

“Then what do they _want_?” Sherlock exploded. “The letter doesn’t ask for anything, it doesn’t make any demands . . .”

“I told you, it’s an initiation. They want _you_. I’m sure they’ll make themselves clear when they’re ready.”

“We’re just supposed to wait,” said Sherlock bitterly.

“Martlets don’t, though, do they?” asked Mycroft.

“Sorry, but what is a martlet exactly?” John finally asked.

“A swift or a martin, by most accounts,” Mycroft told him. “Used to be people didn’t think they had feet, so it was thought they didn’t land. Because they were always flying, they were considered tireless, and so on a coat of arms signified unceasing effort.

“They are exploiting your weaknesses,” the older Holmes went on, looking to his brother once more. “Patience isn’t on the very short list of your virtues.”

Sherlock pushed back from the table and stood, and John moved to follow suit. Mycroft handed the letter back to his brother and said, “You won’t find them online anywhere. They’re older than that.”

“Then where _can_ I find them?” demanded Sherlock.

“Benjamin Markham was an architect,” Mycroft reminded him.

“You won’t tell me.”

“I can’t,” Mycroft said again.

Sherlock turned in a circle, made a decision. “Come on, John. We need to go back to Markham’s flat.”

John waited until they were outside again before saying, “I can’t.”

“Can’t what?” Sherlock asked him as he strode down the sidewalk, John working to keep up.

“Go to Markham’s flat with you. I have work. Are we walking all the way back to Baker Street?” he added.

But Sherlock had stopped walking. “You can’t wander off, John. You heard Mycroft; it isn’t safe.”

John stopped as well, closed his eyes briefly and summoned his patience. “He didn’t really say that. And I’m not wandering off. It’s work. You know, like what most normal people do every day?”

“This is work too. And I need you with me.”

John checked his watch. “Well, I have a little more than three hours before I need to be to the clinic, so . . .” He opened his hands. “What do you suggest?”

“Call Lestrade,” said Sherlock, starting to walk again. “Ask him to meet us there.”

John fumbled for his phone then struggled to dial while keeping pace with his companion’s long strides. “Can we at least get a cab?”

“No need; it isn’t far.”

“For you maybe,” John muttered as a groggy-sounding Lestrade answered his phone.

“What? Now?” Lestrade asked when John informed him of their request. “Can’t it wait?”

John stole a glance at Sherlock’s rigid back. “Doesn’t seem like it, no.”

“Tell him we’re practically there, so quit wasting time,” Sherlock said over his shoulder.

“He says—” John began.

“I heard him. I’ll be down there as soon as I can, but in the meantime get him some tea and tell him to settle down a bit.”

Fifteen minutes later, John was wishing he had taken Lestrade’s advice to at least stop for tea, since “almost there” to Sherlock amounted to a twenty-minute walk. They had to be halfway back to Baker Street, in John’s estimation. Then Sherlock stopped in front of a building, and after a moment John recognized it as the one they’d been in the previous afternoon, one that looked much like any other building in the area. John wasn’t sure how Sherlock’s internal compass worked, but he couldn’t help admiring it.

Lestrade arrived a couple minutes later. “What are you looking for?”

“Clues,” said Sherlock.

“To what?”

“I’ll know it when I see it,” Sherlock told him. “Have they taken anything out of the flat?”

“The bodies,” said Lestrade as he unlocked the street door. “And any affects that were with them. The sheets and what all.”

“That’s it?” Sherlock asked.

Lestrade led them up the interior stairs. “They’re coming back today to start going through it all, but you can have first look. Some stuff got moved around, but it’s all there.”

“Are they supposed to move things?” John wondered.

“Sometimes it can’t be helped when we’re extracting bodies from a scene,” Lestrade explained. “But we photograph everything first in case it becomes important later.” He unlocked the door to Markham’s flat and pushed it open. “All yours.”

But Sherlock stayed on the threshold. “Do you know what killed them yet?”

“Worried?” Lestrade asked.

“Curious. It would be useful, after all, so you would think they’d work a little faster to come up with an answer.”

“Oh, they have an answer,” said Lestrade, “though they’re running the tests again to be sure it’s correct.”

“Why, were the results inconclusive?” John asked.

“On the contrary, they appeared quite conclusive. Just unusual.”

Sherlock stared expectantly.

“Seems they ingested a quantity of conium.”

Sherlock frowned. “Hemlock?”

Lestrade shrugged. “Were you planning to go _into_ the flat?”

John followed Sherlock through the door, Lestrade coming after. “Hemlock,” John echoed thoughtfully. “Like Socrates?”

“Very good, John,” said Sherlock as he did a turn about the living area. It was smaller even than their Baker Street flat. The corners of the room were stacked with a few boxes and crates, most of them filled with books on architecture. A couple pieces of artwork leaned against the wall as if recently taken down. “Not very inspired, for an architect,” Sherlock remarked as he regarded them. One was a photograph of the Palace of Westminster and the other was of Lambeth Palace. Both looked like the sort of oversized print one might by in a tourist shop.

“Some of Markham’s things had already been moved to the new flat,” Lestrade reminded him. “These might have been the least of his belongings.”

“Maybe that’s where the ring is,” John suggested.

Sherlock sighed. “There’s more to this than a ring, John.” He paused. “Hemlock isn’t something you drink on accident.” He strode into the bedroom and glanced around. “So what did they drink from?”

“It doesn’t take immediate effect,” said John, choosing to remain in the doorway, even though the bodies were gone. “They could have mixed it with their tea and put the cups away before lying down.”

But Sherlock was shaking his head. “You don’t get up from making love, go drink a paralytic poison, then go back to bed. And there’s no note.”

“That we’ve found,” put in Lestrade. “But . . .” He gestured to the piles of books and papers waiting to be packed.

“It doesn’t make sense,” Sherlock insisted. “You wouldn’t hide a suicide note. You want people to find it.”

“Then what do you think happened?” Lestrade asked.

“I think there was someone else here,” said Sherlock. “Someone else administered the poison.”

“That’s just . . . incredibly creepy,” said John. “Isn’t it?” he asked when Sherlock only responded with a blank stare.

“There’s no evidence anyone else was here,” said Lestrade.

“Yes, because of course if there were, that person would want to make sure we knew it,” Sherlock said. “It’s the lack of evidence that proves it. Assuming they drank the hemlock, there would need to be at least one glass or cup containing the dregs.”

“Drinking would be the most likely way to do it,” John said. “It doesn’t smell very good if you rip or chew it, and it’s not as effective dried.”

Both Sherlock and Lestrade stared for a long moment before the inspector remarked, “You seem to know a lot about it.”

“Well, it has medicinal uses. Not common, but works in a pinch. Problem with it is, the difference between a therapeutic dose and a fatal one is extremely small.”

“What can you use it for?” Lestrade asked.

“As a sedative, mostly. Sometimes to suppress muscle spasms.”

“So this could have been an accident,” Lestrade theorized.

“Doubtful,” said Sherlock. He began poking through the stacked papers and folders that made up the edges and corners of the room. “We need to find his portfolio.”

“Probably moved that to the new flat,” said Lestrade.

“Was he living there yet?” Sherlock asked.

“No; they were waiting to move in together after the wedding.”

“Then it’ll be here. Somewhere. A portfolio is something you keep handy.”

“Maybe it’s at his office?” John suggested.

Sherlock began pulling loose sheets of paper from various stacks, many of them featuring sketches of buildings. “Disorganized for an architect, too,” he reflected.

“The same could be said of you,” John said, and immediately regretted drawing the parallel. It reminded him too vividly of the scene they’d viewed the day before. Would someone find them in their flat like that, then comment on how disorganized Sherlock was? Or rather, had been? John had been feeling better that morning, almost as if the whole thing had been a bad dream, or maybe just blown out of proportion. But now he was starting to feel anxious again. “I should go,” he said abruptly.

Sherlock frowned and checked his watch. “It’s only been—”

“No, really, I . . .” Feeling as if he couldn’t catch his breath, John turned away from the bedroom and began moving toward the door.

“John?” Sherlock asked, dropping the sheet of paper he was holding and starting after his flatmate. But Lestrade held up a hand to block his passage.

“Let him go,” the inspector intoned quietly. “Not everyone can take things as impersonally as you.”

John, meanwhile, had made it to the street only to realize that he really had very little idea of where he was. He tried to remember how they’d managed the walk home the day before. He’d gone left initially, but then Sherlock had taken him back past Markham’s flat, so he should go right this time.

Except hadn’t they come from that direction this morning?

It didn’t matter; he just needed distance and to find a tube station or a street he recognized, whichever came first. Though as it turned out, Hyde Park came first, from which point John was capable of navigating. He considered going home, but thought that was unlikely to relieve the pressure he felt building inside him. So he decided to go on to the clinic. It was always busy; maybe he could get an early start and lose himself in his work.

Sarah was there, of course, when he arrived. They’d each worked hard—too hard, probably—to keep things from being awkward. The result had been mutual avoidance except when it was absolutely necessary for them to interact, at which point smiles were forced and pleasantries exchanged in strained tones.

But this morning as Sarah looked up from where she was standing at reception, going through a stack of phone messages, she saw instantly that something was terribly wrong. And forgetting to be uncomfortable, she asked, “John? What is it?”

John halted as he realized he’d practically been running through the wait area, so intent had he been on getting away from what was bothering him. “Nothing,” he said quickly. “I just . . . I thought I was running late.”

Sarah glanced at the clock on the wall. “Not at all. You’re a bit early, in fact, but we could use the help. We’re backed up already, but with you here maybe we can catch up.” She was hedging, trying to remain professional and upbeat, although curiosity was gnawing at her.

“Good,” John said, but the response came across as absent-minded, and Sarah wondered if he’d even heard what she’d said. “I’ll just go . . .” But he didn’t finish the thought, just started in the general direction of the coat closet, leaving Sarah to assume he was off to hang up his jacket.

After a moment’s indecision, Sarah resolved to try and take the edge off things by making John a cup of tea in the staff room. But when she brought it to the office he was working in and set it on the desk, he pulled back as if she’d bit him. “John . . .”

“No, no, it’s fine,” he said preemptively. “Thank you.”

“Something’s wrong,” Sarah said flatly.

“No.”

“You know you’re terrible at lying.”

John sighed, dropped his chin and ran his hands through his hair. “Yes.”

Sarah glanced behind her, found the guest chair and took a seat.

“Sherlock has a case,” John began.

“That’s good, isn’t it?” Sarah asked. “You always say he’s impossible when he’s bored.”

“He’s impossible no matter what, he’s just _more_ impossible when he’s bored,” John corrected. “But this case is . . . It’s a little strange, even for Sherlock, so . . .”

“What is it? A ghost?” Sarah teased.

“Feels like it, in a way. Or maybe more like when you dream something and then it happens?”

“Déjà vu.”

“Right. Well, this is the dream bit.”

“I don’t follow,” said Sarah.

“No, you wouldn’t,” John said with another sigh. “But thank you for the tea anyway. I should just get on with it, take my mind of things.” He took the top folder from a stack on the desk and pointedly flipped it open.

Sarah saw she was dismissed and stood. “All right then,” she said. She paused at the door. “If you decide you want to talk . . .”

“Mm-hm,” said John, his eyes not leaving the folder. But Sarah was pretty sure he wasn’t seeing it, either.


	4. Chapter 4

THE MORE HE worked through the flat, the more frustrated Sherlock became. If Markham really were anything like him—and Sherlock was not at all convinced of this, apart from a possible passing resemblance—there was method to the madness of his belongings. It should have been a simple matter of extracting all the puzzle pieces from the piles of what had been the architect’s life and assembling them. But thus far the only thing Sherlock had found that he could consider potentially useful was a scrapbook of newspaper clippings featuring articles about Markham’s work and society pages about charities and galas he had been involved with or attended. Most of these Sherlock had already seen online, but he had learned that the things a person chose to keep often functioned as a pixel in a larger picture. The scrapbook, then, was a piece of the puzzle.

But the kitchen had failed to turn up any cups, dirty or clean, that might have been used to imbibe poison. And there was no portfolio to be found, either.

“You’ll need to wrap it up,” Lestrade finally said. “The team will be here in about an hour.” His eyes fell on the scrapbook Sherlock was holding, but before he could say anything, Sherlock told him, “Don’t worry; I’ll leave you out of it.”

Lestrade grimaced. “Will it help?”

“When I know, I’ll tell you,” said Sherlock as he headed for the door. Once outside, he was forced to consider whether he wanted to carry the scrapbook home or hail a cab. It was a nice enough day for a walk (despite John’s reservations, Sherlock did notice these things), but the scrapbook was thick and unwieldy as the folded clippings pushed the pages apart. Not easy to tuck up under an arm. So in the end he opted for the cab.

Still, at Baker Street and feeling in no rush to get up to an empty flat, Sherlock took the stairs slowly. As he unlocked the door, he was thinking he might actually eat something when a voice said, “Any luck?”

Sherlock whipped his head to the right.

“Hope you don’t mind that I made myself comfortable,” said Moriarty, sitting up from where he’d been stretched out on the sofa. “Here, I brought you something.”

A small, dark brown box sailed across the room, and Sherlock was forced to drop the scrapbook on a side table in order to catch. But even before he had his hands on it, Sherlock knew what it was. Opening the box was only a formality.

There, tucked into the brown velvet interior, was Markham’s ring.

Moriarty was crossing the room now, hands in his trouser pockets as he stopped just out of Sherlock’s reach. “How is domestic bliss for you, Sherlock?” he asked. He made a show of craning to look behind where Sherlock stood. “Not so blissful at the moment, it seems. He hasn’t been out with you much lately.”

“We stay in,” said Sherlock. He wasn’t surprised that Moriarty was aware of his and John’s habits; the villain had made it clear in the past he kept tabs on them. Even now, Sherlock found his gaze drawn to the windows of their flat, and Moriarty laughed.

“Just me today,” Moriarty told him. “Are you sure it’s safe to let him loose on his own? Probably not any less safe than usual, given your history,” he mused without waiting for an answer. “You aren’t terribly good at looking after him, are you?” Moriarty lifted his brows and widened his smile as if a wonderful idea had just occurred to him. “Maybe he’s safer wherever he is now than he would be here.

“Go ahead, put it on,” Moriarty continued with a nod toward the box Sherlock held. “It’s yours now, for as long as they deem you worthy of it. Or does it bother you to wear it?”

Sherlock made no move to do as Moriarty suggested, instead setting the ring box atop the scrapbook. “You work for them.”

But Moriarty shook his head.

“What then?” asked Sherlock.

Moriarty began to stroll around the flat, stopping now and again to touch something thoughtfully. “You know, Sherlock, I’ve always thought that if you didn’t have a bad habit of getting in my way, we could have a lot of fun together. You can come away from the door, by the way. I’m not going to bite you . . . this time . . . Unless you say please.”

Sherlock stayed put and Moriarty heaved a disappointed sigh. “You do like making things hard for me.”

“I’ll send you a bill.”

“I’ll come to the point,” said Moriarty. “They’ve inconvenienced me, and they’re threatening you—”

“Who are they?” Sherlock asked.

“They don’t have a name, just a mark. Members call themselves Martlets.”

“What do they want?”

Moriarty shrugged. “Who knows and who cares? I only want to dig at them a little.”

“And why should I trust you?”

“Oh, you shouldn’t. But for your sweetheart’s sake, you don’t have many choices in the matter, do you?”

Sherlock scowled, disliking intensely that Moriarty was right. “Why did they kill Markham?”

“He went against the rules. And they’re very strict.”

“The hemlock was what? A ritual execution?”

“The organization isn’t made up of barbarians,” Moriarty said. “I’m sure they were allowed to pick their poison.”

“How do you know all this?” asked Sherlock.

“Lumley was one of mine. Oh, don’t look so shocked!” Moriarty laughed. “You use homeless people, after all.”

Sherlock couldn’t deny he was intrigued. “What are you proposing?”

“I’m out a man, and you have an in. Between us we should be able to formulate something.”

“I’m not sure their threatening me can be viewed as an in,” said Sherlock.

“You received a letter, didn’t you?” Moriarty asked. “Every initiation is equal parts an offer and a threat.”

“I either succeed or I fail,” Sherlock surmised with a sigh. _In for a penny . . ._ If he was to be subjected to this—and if John really was at risk—then why not make use of what arms were available? He had little to lose, even if Moriarty did betray him. But Sherlock had one more question. “If you’re not with them, how did you come by the ring?”

Moriarty’s smile became strained, and for the first time Sherlock could see into how affected he was by the situation. Whatever these Martlets had done to him—killing Lumley, maybe more—had impacted Moriarty more than he was readily willing to admit. “It doesn’t matter,” he answered now, turning toward the door, just inside which Sherlock still stood. Not wanting to appear to be giving ground, the detective stepped aside only slightly to allow Moriarty to move past him. But Moriarty paused in the doorway and said, “Lumley and Markham were the bell. Time to move on to the book.” And with that, he stepped out and was gone.

~*~

THERE WAS ONLY one hour of daylight left by the time John found himself trudging up the stairs to the flat. He’d managed to keep his rising sense of distress at bay during the day by focusing on work and not stopping for lunch, but almost the minute he stepped outside the clinic, the dread began to encroach. And as the sun sank from the sky, John felt darkness creeping in around the edges of his sense of wellbeing.

It didn’t help that there were no lights on the in the flat when he got there. The only illumination came from the rapidly deepening sky outside the windows. John thought Sherlock must be out, but a quick glance around showed that his flatmate was merely asleep on the sofa. Sherlock was curled up with his back to the room and was so utterly still that John suffered a moment of full-blown panic that the worst had happened—that Sherlock was dead.

Without turning on any lights (because he didn’t want to see it clearly if his fears happened to be realized), John walked slowly to the sofa and leaned in for a look. He felt his breath ease out of him in relief when he was able to determine that Sherlock’s chest was moving. Then relief was replaced by a feeling of chagrin at his own stupid anxiety. What had he honestly been worried about? Not only now but all day?

John reached over to a side table and switched on a lamp. Time to think about something to eat. He spared one more glance for his slumbering flatmate and paused. Sherlock’s left hand was between his chest and the back of the couch, the fingers bent into a relaxed fist as if Sherlock had fallen asleep holding something. John could just make out the glint of gold in the lamplight.

The ring, of course. Sherlock must have found it after all.

John was curious but didn’t want to pry, literally or figuratively. Deciding it was quite likely Sherlock hadn’t eaten lunch that day either, John opted to get on with making some dinner. But when he was halfway to the kitchen, he heard Sherlock stir.

“What time is it?” Sherlock asked as he sat up, awake in his usual instantaneous way.

“Almost six,” said John. “Not like you to fall asleep on the job.” He’d meant it jokingly, but it came out sounding harsher than he’d intended.

“This one is . . .” Sherlock’s voice trailed, and John didn’t bother to ask him to finish his sentence; there was the distinct impression that there were no neat or handy words for the case at hand.

“You found the ring,” John remarked as he pulled cans from the cupboards. “It was in Markham’s flat after all?”

There was a long silence before Sherlock simply answered, “No.”

John turned. “No? Where was it then?”

“It was here when I got back,” said Sherlock, neglecting to remark on what—or who, rather—else had been there. “Don’t cook, John; we’ll order something.”

John surveyed the motley collection of cans on the counter and had to admit they weren’t a terribly appealing combination.

“You call,” Sherlock added, though it would have gone without saying. Sherlock hated talking on the phone, and he equally hated dealing with service people of any kind, for which he had no patience. So having him talk on the phone to a service person was one of the worst things a person could ask of him, and it was a fair bet that if Sherlock had been the one phone for their dinner, by the end of whatever conversation was likely to occur, the food that came might not be entirely safe to eat. Because Sherlock had a knack for pissing people off.

John often reflected on the duality of having such an impatient flatmate who himself required such fortitude to deal with.

“Fine,” John said now. “What would you like to eat?”

“Oh,” Sherlock sighed, “whatever.”

John suppressed a flare of irritation. It was well enough for Sherlock to say “whatever,” but if John really did order “whatever” he would never hear the end of how he’d ordered the wrong thing. So now he said, “Write it down.”

Sherlock shot him a disdainful look but got up and went to the desk all the same, where he slapped the ring down next to the computer before digging through a pile of paper for a scrap to write on.

John came over to stand and wait, idly reaching for the ring. “Funny about this castle,” he said.

Sherlock finished writing and thrust the paper at John, simultaneously snatching the ring from him. “How so?”

“Didn’t Mycroft say martlets don’t land?”

Sherlock only blinked, evidently expecting more.

“Then what’s the castle for, if the martlet isn’t going to land on it? Never mind,” John added immediately as he pulled out his mobile phone. All their favorite places were programmed in. He stepped to the windows, not because he needed better reception but to put distance between himself and Sherlock’s scowl.

When he was done, John came back to where Sherlock had settled himself in front of the computer, roughly a dozen windows open on the screen as the detective toggled between them. A flash of gold caught John’s attention as his flatmate typed, and zeroing in, John discovered Sherlock was wearing the ring.

The sense of foreboding he’d been battling rose up again, threatening to choke him. John wasn’t superstitious by nature; Sherlock never would have tolerated him if he had been. But something about this made John feel as if they were tempting fate. At the very least, did Sherlock have to wear it on his left hand?

John didn’t realize he was shaking until Sherlock glanced up and asked, “What’s the matter, John?”

Clearing his throat, John said, “Nothing.” But it came out tremulous.

Like a cat detecting the movement of a mouse, Sherlock’s attention became riveted to his flatmate.

“Find anything else interesting today? Besides the ring?” John asked. He felt as if he were standing atop a slippery precipice and trying not to step wrong.

But Sherlock’s eyes only narrowed. “The color of your car appears to be gold.”

Confusion took the place of John’s worry. “What?”

Sherlock turned back to the computer. “If it bothers you, John, I’ll take it off.”

“It’s nothing to do with me,” John replied brusquely. “Do what you want like you always do.”

Sherlock stared unseeingly at the monitor while he mentally searched for the correct answer. He was sure there was one, something he was supposed to say or do that would make John feel better. The problem was Sherlock wasn’t entirely sure why John was upset. It was difficult to apply a bandage without knowing where a person was wounded.

And John, meanwhile, was already walking away. Sherlock was increasingly aware that John was losing patience with him, with their situation or (as some would surely label it) _relationship_. Sherlock was at a loss there, too; he didn’t know what John’s expectations were and had none of his own.

But Sherlock couldn’t stop working in order to take care of John every few minutes. John should at least know that much. Which was, perhaps, why John had been making himself scarce when Sherlock was on a job.

Now Sherlock tried working backwards to find the source of John’s mood. Was it the ring? He’d been on about the ring ever since noticing it (or the lack of it), but it hadn’t seemed to bother John so much until Sherlock put it on. Well, and Sherlock had offered to take it off, but that had only upset John more. Why?

The whole case seemed to be affecting John, though, not just the ring. John was a soldier; he was no ninny. So what about this particular case disturbed him so much? The easy answer was the fact that Markham and Lumley resembled Sherlock and John, but any number of people in the world had dark hair or tans or were tall and so forth, so there had to be more to it than that.

The stress of being threatened by an unknown source then. Sherlock was feeling it, too, and could certainly sympathize with John if that were the issue. It was the reason he needed to focus on figuring things out.

Sherlock absent-mindedly fiddled with the ring, using his thumb to move it like a loose tooth. It was a bit large for him, but in no danger of slipping off. What had John said about the castle? No, the martlet wouldn’t land there. Castle towers like the one on the ring symbolized strongholds and security, or in some cases were meant to represent actual, specific places.

The martlet, then, was swiftly on its way . . . working tirelessly . . . for this castle? For the safekeeping of something or someone who was identified with it?

“John, you’re brilliant,” said Sherlock.

John turned from where he’d put the cans away and begun brewing tea. “Sorry?” he asked, too surprised to continue the brooding to which he’d been devoted.

“The castle. Bell, book and candle . . .” Sherlock was rapidly navigating through the windows on the monitor.

“Bell, book—?” John began, but there came a knock on the door. Dinner had arrived.

John tried to make the meal seem more normal by dishing the food onto actual plates, though halfway through this exercise he came to the conclusion that it merely made things _less_ normal since under usual circumstances they would never do that. Why create dirty dishes, after all?

But it was too late by then, and eating from real plates felt more civilized at the very least. John brought Sherlock’s to where he sat at the computer, and when Sherlock ignored it, John set it down, taking care that it wasn’t in a spot likely to get it knocked over. John speculated that Sherlock probably wouldn’t notice it until much later, perhaps after having dipped a sleeve in it, only to become annoyed that (1) his sleeve was soiled, and (2) his food was cold.

John himself had two options as he saw it: to either go sit in front of the telly and let Sherlock work, or to try and engage his flatmate in some kind of dialogue. This second choice had always proven to be hit or miss since it depended primarily on Sherlock’s mood. But there was nothing on the telly that John much wanted to see, and he had to admit to a certain curiosity about the case. Morbid curiosity, he supposed. Though if he were being honest with himself, he was secretly hoping Sherlock had learned something that would put him more at ease about the whole thing.

So John took up residence in a chair not far from the computer desk and took some time with his meal, watching and waiting for what seemed like a good moment to speak. But it was Sherlock who, after some minutes, turned and frowned, not at John but at his plate. “What have you got there?”

“Chicken dansak.”

Sherlock glanced around. “What did I get?”

“Some kind of lamb, I think,” John told him, pointing out the plate.

Sherlock considered his plate then looked back at John’s. “Is it spicy?”

“The chicken or the lamb?”

“Either.”

“The chicken is a little hot. I don’t know about the lamb; you’re the one who ordered it. You should eat it before it gets cold,” John added, hoping to nip a future tantrum in the bud.

But all Sherlock said was, “Hm,” as he turned his attention back to the computer monitor.

“You want me to taste it for you and tell you if it’s spicy?” John asked him, feeling a bit as if he were talking to a child.

“I’ll just have some naan,” said Sherlock, and after a moment John realized that had been his cue to get up and fetch said naan. Sighing, he set his own plate on the desk and took Sherlock’s lamb back to the kitchen.

“Is there something to dip it in?” Sherlock asked when John handed him a fresh plate of naan, and the detective appeared surprised when John groaned aloud. Before Sherlock could ask what was wrong, the door opened and Mycroft stepped in, looking for all the world like a sovereign on a state visit.

“Oh, and I suppose you’ll want something, too,” John snapped, taking both Holmes aback. As John stalked back over to the kitchen, Mycroft sent Sherlock a questioning look, and Sherlock answered with a small shake of his head.

John returned and set three sauce cups of varying colors on Sherlock’s keyboard. “Which one is which?” Sherlock asked.

“Try them and find out,” said John, sitting down again to finish his own meal, though he paused and looked at Mycroft before taking a bite. “ _Did_ you want something?”

“What? Yes. Well, no, not—” Mycroft waved a hand at John’s plate. “I came to find out about your progress.”

“Bell, book and candle,” Sherlock reported. “The old ritual of excommunication. If Markham and Lumley were the bell, then the book must be Markham’s portfolio, and when we find that we’ll find the candle.”

“Wait, how are Markham and Lumley a bell?” asked John.

“The bishop performing the ceremony would ring a bell as a death knell,” said Sherlock.

John felt his stomach grow cold, and he set his food aside. He had the uneasy feeling the ‘death knell’ hadn’t been intended for Markham and Lumley so much as for Sherlock and himself. “So it’s a religious organization?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock admitted. “They may simply have appropriated the ritual for their riddle.”

“They used to have religious connections,” said Mycroft, “before the Reformation. And they continue to adhere to certain . . . practices.”

“The Reformation?” John echoed. “Good God, how long have they been around?”

“Long enough,” Mycroft pronounced as he turned toward the door.

“What did Markham do?” Sherlock asked suddenly. “To get himself ‘excommunicated’?”

Mycroft paused. “He told them no.”

“That’s all?” John asked in surprise.

“They didn’t kill him right away,” Mycroft replied reasonably. “They at least waited until they could put his death to good use. Waste not, want not.”

“If I didn’t know better, Mycroft, I’d think you were one of them,” said Sherlock.

Mycroft lifted his brows, a smile touching his lips. “They’ve had their uses. But you don’t see me wearing a ring.” He nodded at Sherlock’s hand, and Sherlock self-consciously twirled the gold signet with his thumb.

“Then why kill Lumley?” John asked suddenly. “Just because he . . . you know . . .?”

“What? Because he looked like you?” Mycroft asked. “Didn’t Sherlock tell you who Lumley was?”

John was bewildered. “A baker?”

Mycroft chuckled. “Yes, that was his day job. I’ll let Sherlock tell you the rest.”

~*~

SHERLOCK STARED AT the door for a long while after his brother had exited. “We’re going to have to start locking that,” he finally said.

John waited. Sherlock could feel his flatmate’s expectancy crawling over him, but he couldn’t bring himself to meet John’s gaze. Instead, Sherlock scrambled mentally to come up with a way of telling John about Moriarty’s visit that wouldn’t anger or upset him. But every potential scenario ended with John stalking off either to his bedroom or, worse, out of the flat entirely. Sherlock felt as if he had just been checkmated at chess.

“Sherlock?”

There was nothing else for it. He would have to tell John and take whatever consequences followed.

Still staring at the door, Sherlock said, “Lumley worked for Moriarty.”

When John remained silent, Sherlock finally pulled together the courage to look at him and was shaken by the intensity of John’s gaze. The truth seemed to be dawning on John, even as the doctor warred with himself in an effort to stay hopeful that what he suspected wasn’t—couldn’t be—true. “How—?” John began, but his voice came out hoarse, so he cleared his throat and started again. “How do you know?”

Sherlock paused to examine his flatmate. _Lover_ , he reminded himself, though the word didn’t come naturally to him. But at that moment Sherlock wanted to be able to remember what John looked like, all of him, in case he didn’t get another chance. He wondered fleetingly whether the night before had been the last night they would share a bed, and thought that if it had been, how sorry he was for it and what he might have done differently. But regrets were a waste of energy, and as Mycroft had said: waste not, want not.

And yet despite his known economy of emotion, there were so many things Sherlock wanted.

But John was waiting again, patient as always, and Sherlock owed him an answer. He glanced away again before speaking, though, to spare himself whatever reaction John was likely to have. “Moriarty told me.”

“He told you,” John repeated flatly. “What? Over the phone?” But his tone made it clear that he knew better.

“He was here when I got in from searching Markham’s flat. He had the ring, and he told me . . .” Sherlock drew in a breath, summoning strength to tell the unvarnished truth. “He told me Lumley had been his man. Moriarty was the one to suggest Lumley and Markham were the bell and that I—we—should get on with looking for the book part of the equation.”

“We,” said John, and Sherlock realized with a chill that John thought he’d meant to include Moriarty in that pronoun.

“You and I, John,” Sherlock told him.

“So you’re going on Moriarty’s advice now, are you?”

“I don’t have much else.”

“And how can you trust him?” John asked.

“I can’t. I don’t. But, John, if you had seen him . . .” Sherlock searched for a way to explain, but as someone who didn’t usually trust in intuition, he was at a loss to articulate what amounted to a gut feeling. “He was upset, John. About what they’d done.”

“Pardon me if I don’t weep for his loss,” said John. Then he asked what he really wanted to know. “Were you going to tell me?”

“I didn’t lie,” Sherlock said defensively.

“Some saint you would have made,” said John, and Sherlock winced. “Omission is still a sin.” He rose from his chair, took his plate and went into the kitchen.

“Do you know why I wanted to become a saint?” Sherlock asked.

“So you could have a day named for you?” John guessed. “So people would light candles and pray to you for guidance?”

Sherlock had an abrupt sense of lost balance, like having missed a stair or tripped over something. He wasn’t sure where to put his feet so that he could stay emotionally upright.

If John cared about the real answer to Sherlock’s question, he didn’t voice it. He rinsed his plate and put the leftovers in the refrigerator before announcing, “I’m going to shower.”

“John.”

John stopped mid-stride but didn’t turn around.

“I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to give you more to worry about. I wanted to protect you.”

John rounded. “You don’t get to decide that.”

Sherlock considered this and after a moment gave a slight nod in the way of a reprimanded child. “The flat is clean, by the way,” he said as John turned away again.

Now John looked around, confused because the flat was most certainly not clean. It never was. Stacks of books and papers were everywhere, and Sherlock’s worktable was littered with as much strange stuff as ever.

“After Moriarty left, I went through everything to be sure,” Sherlock explained.

“Oh,” said John, momentarily nonplussed. “Did you find anything?”

Sherlock shook his head, but John’s eyes darted to the ring.

“First thing I checked,” said Sherlock.

John’s eyes lingered on Sherlock’s finger. “He gave it to you?”

“Christ, John, it’s not a love token.” Sherlock pulled off the ring and chucked it across the room, where it bounced against the wall and fell with a resounding clink into the large Grecian urn that stood in the corner. “Feel better?”

“Not really.” And without giving Sherlock a chance to say anything more, he strode to the bathroom and slammed the door resolutely behind him.


	5. Chapter 5

SHERLOCK CLEARED HIS computer space of the untouched naan and sauces. He fished the ring out of the urn and returned it to its box. Then he took Markham’s scrapbook from the side table, returned to the computer, and began work in earnest.

It irked him more than a little that, thus far, none of the breaks in the case had stemmed from his own effort. He planned to rectify that now.

At some point John stalked through the room to his bedroom. Sherlock deemed it best on all fronts to let him go. Trying to talk before John was ready to listen would be useless, and Sherlock determined that his time was better spent focused on the case.

The first question was: where was the portfolio? Had whoever killed Markham and Lumley taken it? This seemed reasonable. But then again, Markham had to have known he was on the outs with the organization. Mycroft had said the Martlets had waited to kill him. Which would have given Markham ample time to hide his portfolio, if that was, indeed, the book in question.

It made sense now. The Martlets wanted Sherlock to find Markham’s portfolio for them.

Sherlock’s curiosity was piqued. What could be so important that Markham would hide it from them, and that they would kill to get it?

Was the game worth the candle? Evidently the candle—whatever it happened to be—was worth the game.

Sherlock researched the location of Markham’s office, which was (interestingly enough) only two blocks from Dana’s, the bakery Lumley had owned. Sherlock wondered if that had been arranged by Moriarty. Not that it mattered. Either Markham and Lumley had met by accident or they’d met on purpose, but it had come to the same thing in the end.

But that brought to mind Markham’s fiancée. Madeline Dawson. Sherlock had seen the wedding announcement online, and there was surely a copy of it in the scrapbook as well. Sherlock grabbed the book and flipped through until he found it.

The photo was a mid-shot of Markham and Dawson standing in a park. She was unremarkable, Sherlock decided, though she looked happy enough. Dark hair, dark eyes, a little thick around the waist and quite a bit shorter than Markham. The write-up said she was the daughter of Geoffrey and Pamela Dawson, that her sister would be her Maid of Honor, and that the wedding was set for the end of May.

Sherlock checked the date on the paper; it was from last August. A long engagement meant one of two things, or maybe both: (A) they were expecting to host a large wedding and needed time to plan, and/or (B) there was reluctance on at least one side, in which case the longer the wedding was put off the better.

Sherlock studied Markham’s expression in the photo. Reluctance indeed. The man’s smile was thin and didn’t show his teeth. And while Dawson leaned in quite cozily, Markham stood rigid, the hand circling around to her upper arm almost hovering as opposed to holding, as if he were trying to minimize contact.

It would have been a marriage of convenience, perhaps. Geoffrey Dawson was no small fish; he ran a textile company, and his wife was an interior decorator. The announcement mentioned that Madeline Dawson had been working at her father’s offices. Potentially useful connections for an up-and-coming architect.

Sherlock supposed Madeline might know where the portfolio was. At the very least she could get him access to the flat they had been planning to move into, in the off chance Markham had left it there. Upon reflection, Sherlock surmised it might be a task better left to John; he was better at dealing with people, especially women who were liable to burst into tears at the drop of a hat.

But then again, John might not be willing to help. Not only were the two of them on an uneven footing at the moment, the case itself already had John haring off at the slightest thing.

Sighing, Sherlock thumbed idly through the scrapbook, his eyes flicking over headlines and images. But as he came toward the back of the book, Sherlock slowed. A series of short mentions, followed by longer articles, all covered the same subject.

Lambeth Palace.

Immediately Sherlock recalled the framed photo of Lambeth that had been leaning against the wall at Markham’s flat. He’d thought at the time that it had been an uninteresting choice for an architect, but he knew better now.

Lambeth Palace was the residence of the Archbishop of Canterbury. Now the head of the Anglican Church, but before the Reformation . . .

Mycroft had been trying to tell him something. Lambeth had some kind of connection to the Martlets. Not a contemporary bond, but something older and deeper, maybe even at the root.

Sherlock slapped the scrapbook shut. It was tempting to continue his research—he could easily stay up all night and do so, especially after having had a nap that afternoon—but at some point he would need John, and that was another task entirely. One Sherlock would feel better about once it was out of the way.

Shower first. Then John. Then back to work.

Still, dressed in his royal blue silk pajamas and standing at John’s bedroom door, Sherlock hesitated. It was one thing to think of John as a line on his to-do list, but something else again to, well, do it. Him. No, it.

After a few minutes of winding up his courage, Sherlock opened the door.

Like the night before, Sherlock went and lay down, though he didn’t try to get close to John. He waited, but John kept his back turned to him, so Sherlock finally said, “John.”

Nothing.

Sherlock sighed. “I know you’re awake.”

Naught.

“Turn over and talk to me.”

“Make me.”

Sherlock thought about that for a moment, and what it might entail. “I don’t think you really mean that,” he concluded.

Now John sighed and rolled onto his back, which Sherlock counted as progress at least. “What do you want?”

Sherlock decided to get right to the point. “I’m going to need you on this case, so I thought we’d better sort things out.”

John closed his eyes briefly. Sherlock really was clueless about some things, and how John had drawn the job of educating him was a mystery. But here they were. “What am I to you?” he asked.

Sherlock stared at John for a long moment as if honestly contemplating his response. “You’re John.”

“I know _who_ I am, but _what_ am I? Because sometimes you come in here, and . . . And then sometimes I’m doing your dishes and your laundry, and other times I don’t seem to exist at all.”

“You’re just John,” said Sherlock, making it sound as if it should have been obvious. “There’s no other word for you. You’re all these things, everything.”

“John of all trades, am I?” John muttered.

Sherlock sensed his words lacked something that John needed in order to feel reassured. He recalled the pressure of having been faced with this question once before, and now he gave John the answer he’d given Moriarty then. “You’re my heart,” he said, his tone reasonable now. “Without you, I would be cold and dead. You are . . . _vital_ to me. Oh!” he added in surprise when John did roll the rest of the way over and tucked himself close.

“I’m not going to let anything happen to you, John,” Sherlock promised.

“And what if something happens to you?”

“Then I suppose it’s just as well for you I’m an organ donor.”

John made a sound that might have been a laugh or a sob; Sherlock couldn’t be sure which without pulling back to look, and he was happy to stay just as they were. Work, he decided, would wait a little longer.

~*~

SHERLOCK WAITED UNTIL he was sure John was well and truly asleep. He’d made it a point to thoroughly exhaust John in the hopes that it would ease whatever seemed to be eating at him, and once John’s breathing fell into the even rhythms of slumber, Sherlock was up and dressed (though it occurred to him he could do with another shower), intending to grab a nicotine patch and get back to work.

But Moriarty was in the living room.

Sherlock stopped short on the threshold of John’s bedroom then quickly eased the door closed behind him. His eyes darted to the door of their flat and he sighed; he’d forgotten to lock it after Mycroft had left earlier.

Moriarty seemed pleased enough with himself as he leaned against the fireplace. “Does he taste as good as he smells?”

Sherlock ignored the barb, instead glancing around. “Did you forget something?”

Moriarty shrugged. “I came to see how you were getting on. Not working very hard, though, are you?”

“Maybe you should do it yourself,” Sherlock suggested.

“Believe me, I would if that were an option.”

“Any special reason for the rush?”

“You _should_ be rushed,” Moriarty said fiercely, dropping his easygoing attitude. “If you don’t want to end up like Markham, you should be working as tirelessly as any Martlet.”

“And what do you care if I end up like Markham?” Sherlock asked.

“I don’t,” said Moriarty, collected once again. “I just don’t want them to win.”

“They’ve hit your organization hard, have they?”

Moriarty shrugged again.

“How much did Lumley know?”

“Enough that they killed him for it. How much do _you_ know?”

“That it has something to do with Markham’s portfolio and the work he’d been hired to do at Lambeth.”

Moriarty raised his brows. “Impressive.”

“How did they convince Markham and Lumley to drink the hemlock?” Sherlock asked suddenly.

“Threatened them with something worse, I suppose,” said Moriarty, making for the door.

“Lumley must have given you names.”

Moriarty paused, his hand on the doorknob, and offered a small smile. “Yes, he must have. Good night, Sherlock.”

After the sound of footsteps on the stairs had faded, Sherlock went to the door and gave the lock a decisive twist.


	6. Chapter 6

SHERLOCK HAD A rudimentary knowledge of architecture, more in keeping with the physics involved than anything broader, and he had little use for history. Which meant he had no little amount of work ahead of him if he were going to figure out what Markham had been hiding and why the Martlets wanted it.

It seemed safe enough to start with Lambeth Palace and the articles in the back of Markham’s scrapbook. But there was little to go on; Markham had been selected to do some refurbishing of the Lambeth Library offices housed in Morton’s Tower. The only material of note was a couple of mentions of a planned mural depicting The Presentation of Christ in the Temple.

And then Sherlock looked that up and fireworks went off in his brain.

Because that feast was also known as Candlemas.

Sherlock knew now what he was looking for; Markham almost certainly had a sketch of some kind of the mural in his portfolio. And the mural was the key.

Now more than ever they needed to locate the portfolio.

Sherlock considered. Markham had been well aware he sat beneath Damocles’ sword, his time borrowed against the tensile strength of a horse’s hair. The architect would have put his portfolio somewhere inaccessible to the Martlets—assuming there was such a place. Neither of the flats would meet the criteria, and probably not his office, either. A bank vault? His fiancée? Lumley’s bakery?

Sherlock turned the question around. What would _he_ do if he needed to prevent Moriarty or Mycroft from getting hold of his case notes? Destroy them, unless he needed to leave John or Lestrade a silent message, a clue. In which case . . .

They needed to go back to Markham’s flat.

Because if Markham had done what Sherlock would do, he hadn’t hidden the portfolio—he’d dismembered it.

And somewhere in those piles of papers that were shoved into and between the stacks of books was the solution to this mystery.

Sherlock sat back in his chair, half tempted to get dressed and go right then. Should he wake John and take him along? John had been so strange about the whole thing…

But the question was answered for him when the door to John’s bedroom opened and John emerged, bleary-eyed and blinking as if even the low lamplight was too bright.

“I thought you were asleep,” said Sherlock.

“I woke up,” John answered irritably. “Alone.”

“I would sequester myself with you indefinitely if I thought it would spare us, but as things stand, I need to go back to Markham’s flat. Do you want to come?”

“What? Now?” John asked.

“I see no reason to wait.” Sherlock supposed he’d best be truthful to avoid any additional contention. “Moriarty was back; he seems to think the issue is urgent.”

John stood there, absorbing this new information. “He came here to keep you on task? I had no idea he cared so deeply about your wellbeing.”

Sherlock rose, took a step toward his own room with the idea of changing out of his pajamas. “He wouldn’t, if he didn’t need me.”

“Then why do this at all?”

“I’m not doing it for him, John. Get dressed if you want to come.”

While Sherlock retreated to his room, John ran his hands over his face, debating. Did he want to go back to Markham’s? No. But he didn’t want to stay home alone, either. In the end, John decided that he’d rather go with Sherlock than sit at Baker Street worrying, which is what he’d surely to do. So he turned himself around and went in search of street clothes.

He was still ready before Sherlock, who exited his room looking all too natty for a late-night break in of a crime scene. “Ah, good,” Sherlock said when he saw John was waiting; he grabbed his coat (the day had been fine, but April nights could still be cool) and pulled at the door, only to be momentarily nonplussed by the fact that it didn’t open.

“Lock,” John observed.

Sherlock turned the bolt and was down the stairs before John had time to relock the door behind them.

~*~

STANDING OUTSIDE MARKHAM’S flat once more, waiting for Sherlock to pick the lock, John suffered a frisson that he ascribed to the chill of the night air. But once the door was open, John found it difficult to take the steps that would bring him forward into the building, harder still to manage the stairs, and he stalled like an intractable horse when he came to the interior door, which Sherlock already had open. How had he not noticed before that Markham had lived on the first floor, just as he and Sherlock did? Just one more line on the list of coincidences.

Sherlock, meanwhile, was rifling through a stack of books and papers. “What are we looking for?” John asked.

“I’m looking for a sketch of a Candlemas mural,” Sherlock informed him. “You, on the other hand, don’t seem to be looking for much of anything.”

John glanced over his shoulder. “This way I’ll be able to tell you if anyone is coming.”

Sherlock made a noise that John took to be _humph_. But then he asked, “Did you bring your gun?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock pulled another loose sheet free, glanced at it, cast it aside. “We could be out of here faster if you’d help.”

Sighing, John stepped into the flat. “What’s a Candlemas mural look like, exactly?” he asked as he began sorting through the nearest stack.

“I can’t tell you _exactly_. But it will have Mary and Joseph bringing baby Jesus to the Temple.”

They searched in silence for some while before John asked abruptly, “Why did you want to become a saint?” When Sherlock didn’t answer, John stopped and looked over at him, could tell by the way Sherlock was studying the page he was holding that he was only acting like he was absorbed in something, pretending not to have heard the question.  
John let it go. “Find it?” he asked.

“No,” Sherlock sighed, tossing the page onto a growing stack of other discards. He glanced around, and his eyes fell on the framed photo of Lambeth Palace. God, it was ugly, even for the kind of claptrap tourists went in for. Completely out of place for a stylish architect. Which had been the point.

And might still be the point.

Striding across the room, Sherlock fished his ivory-handled penknife from his pocket, ignoring John’s expression of surprise as he passed. Grabbing the picture from where it leaned against the wall, Sherlock turned it around and sliced open the paper backing, then ripped the backing off completely, revealing the watercolor sketch they’d been looking for.

Now they were getting somewhere.

John walked over as Sherlock pulled the sketch free. “It’s . . . interesting, I suppose,” he commented.

“There’s no need to spare his feelings, John; he’s dead. And anyway, the picture is all wrong.”

John shot him a quizzical look. “How do you know?”

“I only just looked it up online.” Sherlock pointed. “Mary and Joseph were to bring two doves or pigeons for sacrifice at the Temple, but those—”

“Have no feet,” finished John. “Markham was leaving clues?”

“So it would seem,” Sherlock murmured as he studied the image.

“Joseph looks a bit like Lumley,” said John almost wistfully, and this time it was Sherlock’s turn to give his companion a strange look.

“You have curious ideas about romance,” Sherlock said before going back to perusing.

“You don’t think memorializing a lover in a painting is romantic?” John asked.

Sherlock shrugged. “It’s not as if this were ever going to get painted. Not as is, anyway; there’s too much wrong with it. Markham appears to have made himself Saint Simeon, but Simeon was very aged.” Sherlock paused. “He was said to have died the following day.”

John had been feeling fairly steady until that moment. Now the dread was creeping in again, and he swayed slightly on his feet, taking a step back to keep himself standing.

Sherlock glanced over at him. “All right, John?”

“Fine,” John replied with false enthusiasm. “Just tired is all. That doesn’t look like it belongs there,” he added, pointing to a part of the Temple that more resembled a medieval castle than anything in ancient Jerusalem.

“No, that’s—” Sherlock grabbed the frame from which the sketch had been taken and flipped it around to view the photo. “That’s part of Lambeth. And _that_ is an old bell tower.”

John’s eyebrows went up.

“We’ve got martlets, we’ve got a bell, and we’ve got a man who knew he was going to die. What else?” Sherlock asked, going back to the sketch for the mural.

“Two men on a horse?” John asked.

“That is strange,” Sherlock conceded.

“So what does it mean?”

“No idea.” But then he froze. “The Temple Church. Two knights on horseback.” It was a well enough known London landmark, the column outside the church that had been founded by the Knights Templar, atop which was the sculpture of two knights riding one horse.

“Those don’t look like knights,” said John.

“He wasn’t trying to be literal, John. And it makes sense. The Templars were excommunicated, their assets taken back by the Catholic Church and the crown. The Martlets must think there’s something at Lambeth Palace that belongs to them, and they want it back.”

“Something from when the Archbishop was still Catholic,” John concluded. “But what?”

Sherlock pointed. “That.”

John looked at where Sherlock’s finger was aimed. A female figure with a hood overshadowing her face stood angled between Markham’s Simeon and the Holy Family. (In fact, Mary was also turned away so that her face could not be seen, and John fleetingly wondered if Markham had a streak of misogyny in him.) The robed woman held a scroll in one hand and had the other arm crooked around an odd sort of carved chest.

“It’s not uncommon to portray Saint Anna with a scroll. But I’ve never seen her with a casket,” said Sherlock.

“You seem to know a lot about it,” remarked John.

“I told you, I only just looked it up, so it’s fresh in my mind.”

“And so you’ve never seen her with a casket in all the, what, dozens of images you just saw on the Internet?”

John and Sherlock locked gazes. Then Sherlock turned back to the sketch. “This group of people,” he murmured, circling a cluster of men standing together a little apart from the focus of the picture. “Does that one look a little like—?”

“Dear Jim,” said a voice from the doorway of the flat. Sherlock and John both jerked upright from where they’d been bent over the sketch and discovered Moriarty leaning against the door jamb, arms crossed over his chest and eyes turned to the ceiling. “The man I was supposed to marry is in love with another man. And to add injury to the insult, he’s accused me of conspiring to kill my brother.”

Moriarty pushed himself away from the door, slipped his hands into his pockets and sauntered into the flat. “I got a letter like that recently. And then I realized I could kill two martlets with one stone.”

“Markham’s fiancée was accused of—?” John began, confused.

“He’s talking about Elyse Baskerville,” Sherlock intoned, his eyes not leaving Moriarty. “You were the one to give Markham and Lumley the hemlock.”

Moriarty gave a little shrug. “As I believe I mentioned, it was better than what _they_ would have done.”

John still didn’t understand. “But why?”

“Because they wouldn’t tell me what I wanted to know,” said Moriarty.

“You’re trying to beat the Martlets to . . . whatever it is they’re looking for,” Sherlock deduced.

Moriarty’s eyes fell on the sketch Sherlock was holding. “It appears you already know what it is.”

Sherlock ripped the sketch in half, ripped those pieces in half again, and pulled a lighter from his coat pocket.

John frowned. “Since when do you carry a lighter?”

“I used to smoke. Found having a lighter is handy in any case,” said Sherlock as he lit the paper.

Moriarty had grown still as stone. “You’ve just signed your own death warrant.”

“Hardly,” Sherlock scoffed. “John and I are now the only two people who know what it is and where it’s located.” He dropped the torn and burning sketch to the floor and stepped around it, moving for the door.

John glanced worriedly at where it lay, mostly consumed now, on the rug. “Um . . .”

“Come, John, we want to be gone before the fire brigade arrives,” Sherlock called to him.

With a final glance at the murderous-looking Moriarty, John hurried out, trying all the while not to appear as shaken as he felt.

~*~

“ISN’T THE FLAT back—?” John began, thinking that after three visits he should know where he was by now. But as he glanced up and down the block, he realized he still had no idea.

“We’re not going back to the flat,” Sherlock told him.

“No? Oh.” John kept pace for a while before asking, “Then where _are_ we going?”

“Lambeth Palace.”

This news brought John to a halt, though Sherlock made it a few steps farther before turning to look for him. “At this time of night?” John asked with a glance at his wristwatch. “Or morning, rather; it’s after midnight.”

“We don’t have time to put it off, John.”

From a distance came the echo of sirens, getting closer. The fire brigade.

“We should have plenty of time,” said John. “If we’re—and really it’s just you, since I haven’t the slightest clue what’s going on—the only ones who know where this whatever-they-want is, then it can at least wait until daylight. Can’t it?”

Sherlock glanced back over his shoulder in the direction they’d been walking, and John noticed now that his companion was trembling. Cold? It was a cool enough night, but not especially chilly, not even cold enough to see their breath. Nerves, then. And the idea that Sherlock was frightened scared the hell out of John.

“We can’t walk there, anyway,” John went on. “I mean, I guess . . . Well, the sun might be up by the time we got there.” He was flustered now, babbling. “And what does Elyse have to do with anything?” he asked suddenly.

“What?” Sherlock asked, his own mind having been elsewhere. “We need to keep moving, even if we don’t go to Lambeth tonight.” He started off again, and John hurried to keep up with all the abrupt turnings Sherlock took through the streets.

“Elyse evidently contracted Moriarty to kill me. Or us. Doesn’t matter,” Sherlock said absently.

“I think it does,” muttered John.

“But Moriarty needs me to find this . . . artifact. Whatever grievance he has with the Martlets—”

“I thought they were Templars.”

“Used to be. Much of the organization dropped the name when the pope dissolved the order. Some members joined other societies, some just went home, and some went underground.”

“And ‘Martlet’ is almost an anagram of ‘Templar,’” John pointed out, “if you change the ‘p’ to a ‘t.’”

“That’s silly,” Sherlock told him.

“You’d think it was brilliant if you’d thought of it.”

“I didn’t think of it because it’s ridiculous.”

John bit back a stinging reply, and Sherlock continued, “Moriarty’s plan was that he would gain the artifact and the Martlets would get rid of me for him.”

“Because you would have failed them,” John construed.

“Exactly.”

“But you haven’t failed them.” John glanced around as they walked; the streets were beginning to look familiar now.

“No.”

“You’re planning to give them the artifact?”

“Yes.”

“And then what?” John asked.

“Then I suggest we plan for a very long holiday.” Sherlock turned one more corner, and John saw they were back at Baker Street. “We’ll pack now so we can leave the minute we’re done with the case.”

“You really think Moriarty is that dedicated to his agreement with Elyse?”

“I think he’ll be that irate at having lost to the Martlets, and he’ll be prepared to take it out on me,” said Sherlock grimly. “The fact that Elyse is willing to pay him is just a bonus.” He unlocked the street door and John followed him upstairs, then produced his key when it became evident Sherlock didn’t have his.

“Pack whatever you think you’ll want or need for an extended trip,” Sherlock instructed as he shed his coat.

“Where are we going?” John asked.

“It’s better not to make definite plans; it’ll make us harder to track,” said Sherlock as he headed for his bedroom.

“If that’s supposed to make me feel better, it doesn’t!” John called after him before turning his steps toward his own room. There was no question that he would bring his medical bag, and he could get by on a handful of clothing—he wasn’t as fastidious as Sherlock about that kind of thing. His eyes swept the room, feeling as if he were forgetting something. Surely there was more to his life than what fit in one weekender?

Toiletries, of course, John realized. He’d need to—

Sherlock came in and handed him a small box. “Here,” he said, and turned around again.

“What is it?” John asked.

“Wear it if you want,” was all the answer he got; Sherlock was off again.

John thumbed open the lid. Inside was a ring, the gold band marked in a sort of Celtic knot design, a large oval sapphire at the apex. It was lovely and clearly old, for though it was polished, it showed signs of long wear.

With a glance at the doorway, and feeling as if he were doing something he shouldn’t, John took the ring out and slipped it on. It was a relatively good fit.

But maybe he should wear it on his right hand?

Or maybe he shouldn’t wear it at all. Maybe this was a test and wearing the ring was the equivalent of a failing grade. But on second thought that seemed unlikely because Sherlock took slights personally, and to not wear the ring would be a slight. Wouldn't it?

John ran his hands over his face and jumped when Sherlock asked, “Are you packed? Oh, it fits. Is that your only bag?”

“Uh . . . I just need my stuff from the bath. Are you sure it’s okay?” he asked as Sherlock turned around again.

Sherlock paused on the threshold. “Is what okay?”

“If I wear it.”

“I wouldn’t have given it to you if it weren’t,” Sherlock told him before departing once more. And John could find no basis for argument; experience had proven Sherlock didn’t do anything he didn’t want to do.

But now John was left standing in his room worrying that he had nothing to give Sherlock in return. Would Sherlock even wear a ring if John gave him one? It would be better to let Sherlock pick his own at any rate; though Sherlock had shown no especial interest in jewelry, John suspected he was the sort to be choosy.

Not that they had time to visit jewelry stores. Never mind, he’d think of something, maybe while they were on this “holiday.”

Thus reminded of more pressing problems, John sighed and went to collect his toiletries. But when he came out of the bathroom after fetching his shaving kit, he found Sherlock pulling on his coat once more.

A tide of panic surged through him. “What are you doing?”

“Just stay here, John. The sooner I’m done, the sooner we can leave.”

“You can’t go alone,” John insisted.

“It’ll be faster and easier if I do. By the way, don’t pack your mobile; we’ll pick up new ones later.”

John glanced at the windows. “It’s still dark; it’s too early.”

“It’s only a matter of time before Lestrade is banging on our door, and I’d rather not have to explain everything to him,” said Sherlock.

“And I couldn’t, even if I wanted to,” John muttered. “Two hours then,” he said suddenly. “I want my two hours before you go.”

“John . . .”

“Well, what if—” But John didn’t want to voice all the what-ifs that were eating at him, that had been since Sherlock had called him to view the bodies two days before.

Sherlock took in John’s distress and sighed. They couldn’t continue on this way, with him constantly having to stop and ease John’s fears. All the more reason to be done with the whole thing for good. “You’re a solider, John,” Sherlock reminded him. “You knew the risks when we started.”

John shook his head. “It wasn’t like this. The stakes weren’t this high.”

“They’ve always been high. You used to think this was fun, but now it’s nigh impossible to get you to agree to come along.”

“They’ve needed me at the clinic is all,” said John, though his tone suggested even he wasn’t convinced of this.

“And if I need you?” Sherlock asked.

John couldn’t hide his momentary surprise. “You don’t, though,” he finally said. “And I don’t want to . . . to get in the way, or . . . or be a distraction.”

“And yet here you are, trying to stop me from doing what I need to do,” Sherlock pointed out.

“Not stop, just . . . postpone.”

_The inevitable_ , Sherlock added silently, and all at once he saw that he was only doing the same in dragging John abroad. He was trying to stretch his two hours to the very last seconds.

So with another glance at John’s rather miserable-looking countenance, Sherlock slipped his coat off, walked over, and kissed him. He meant to be gentle, reassuring, but as usual Sherlock found it difficult to stop once he’d started. John _was_ a distraction, but Sherlock knew it was only because he allowed it. And he allowed it because he enjoyed it. The walls Sherlock had spent years building, the ones that enabled him to compartmentalize people and his work and let him divide his emotions from the whole, had been breached, and the sensation was so novel, was so like a high or a rush, that he hadn’t bothered to reseal the fortification.

He would have to, though, eventually. Otherwise he might never get anything done. But that wasn’t John’s fault, and it wasn’t John’s burden, and so as Sherlock broke off the kiss, he said, “I’m married to my work, remember.”

John blinked, confused, or (Sherlock supposed) possibly just lightheaded from such thorough snogging.

“This is why I need you to be part of it.”

Sherlock watched understanding break over John’s features like dawn over a horizon. “Well, I do . . . like helping,” John admitted. “Not that I’m much help.”

“I find you very useful,” Sherlock assured him. “And you’re only a distraction when I want you to be.”

“Now?” John asked.

Sherlock looked to the windows. They’d packed quickly enough, and on the off chance he was somehow wrong about Markham’s mural, or otherwise failed to solve this case . . . “I think we can afford a couple hours.”


	7. Chapter 7

WHEN SHERLOCK OPENED his eyes, the sky outside was turning a pearly grey at the edges, heralding the coming sun. He inhaled deeply, and John murmured a response to the movement in his sleep, slightly adjusting the way he laid draped on Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock took a moment to focus on this, on all the places where their bodies intersected, the points of contact burning like small stars to form a constellation. He listened to the pounding of his heart, felt the throb of it as the blood pulsed through him, and became aware of the answering thud of John’s heartbeat against his. If only they could stay that way indefinitely. But time was short now, so Sherlock began the slow process of disentangling himself.

Instinctively, John tightened his hold on Sherlock’s shifting body. He wasn’t fully awake and didn’t want to be, but something in him was well aware of not wanting to let go.

Sherlock was forced to stop his progress under John’s strength. He hadn’t wanted to wake John, but it appeared that was going to be the only way to win freedom. “John,” he murmured.

“Mm.”

“I need to get up.”

“Mm,” John said again, though the uncompromising tone suggested to Sherlock that John disagreed. That and the way John seemed to be resettling himself as if to continue using Sherlock as a pillow.

Sherlock gave John a little push, and finally John opened his eyes. “Time’s up,” Sherlock told him unceremoniously.

John rolled over, releasing his companion. “I’ll come with you.”

“No.”

“I thought you said you want me to be a part of things,” John said.

Sherlock had gathered up his crumpled clothes and was thinking he would need to fetch fresh ones. “Under normal circumstances, yes. But not today.”

John tried unsuccessfully to hide his hurt feelings by rallying himself as he sat up, saying, “Well, I’m supposed to cover at the clinic anyway.”

“No!” Sherlock responded with a vehemence that startled John. “I need you to stay here. Mycroft is coming for the computer.” He strode out of the room, determined to get dressed and quit wasting time.

John could think of little he would like less than having to spend any time at all in Mycroft’s quelling company. “He’ll probably just send his assistant,” John called hopefully, “and Mrs. Hudson can let her in.”

“ _He’s_ coming, and I need you here!” Sherlock shouted back.

Sighing heavily, John got out of bed and slipped on his jeans before stalking through the flat to Sherlock’s bedroom doorway. “You do realize you can’t make me do anything, don’t you? I’m not a dog. You can’t tell me to sit and stay.” He was trying to sound reasonable, but found it surprisingly difficult due to the well of irritation Sherlock’s attitude had tapped within him.

Sherlock brushed past where John stood in the doorway, moving into the living room in search of his shoes. He pumped the fount a bit by saying, “Yes, but you’ll do it anyway.”

“Did I miss a love, honor and obey clause somewhere?” John asked.

“Um . . .” Sherlock extracted a shoe from beneath his computer chair.

“Good. Then I think I’ll shower and go to the clinic.”

Sherlock started to his feet, but only managed to bang his head on the underside of the desk. He hissed an oath and told John, “You won’t.”

“I think I will,” John countered, already on his way to the bathroom.

“Don’t make me tie you—Good morning, Inspector.” Sherlock succeeded in standing this time. “I was just on my way out.”

Lestrade stepped the rest of the way into the flat. “Well, do you have a minute for—?”

“I’m afraid not. You can talk to John, though, as soon as he’s out of the shower. Ah!” He spied his other shoe near his worktable and swooped down upon it. “Keep him here, would you?”

“Keep him—?”

“Find a reason to lock him up if you need to,” said Sherlock as he stepped around the inspector to get to the door, but he checked himself before exiting. “Well, no, don’t go that far,” he decided. “But keep him here at least until my brother shows up.” And then he was gone.

Lestrade stood there for a moment, unsure whether he should just go and come back later, but before he could make a decision, John emerged from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist, leaving Lestrade supposing he should be grateful that there was, at least, a towel.

“Uh . . . Should probably start locking that,” Lestrade said, gesturing at the door.

“Yes, but when we do, Sherlock can’t figure out how to get in or out, and a cat flap would defeat the purpose,” said John, making his way toward his bedroom. “Just give me a minute.”

Lestrade was beginning to think the blaze at Markham’s flat was the least bizarre thing he’d encountered that morning. When John returned fully dressed, Lestrade said, “There was a fire at Markham’s flat.”

John worked to pretend this was news to him. “What, just now?”

“No, closer to midnight.”

John was acutely aware of Lestrade’s scrutiny, so he erred on the side of not saying anything.

“No accelerants that we can find,” Lestrade went on after a pause. “But it started in the middle of the floor, so doesn’t seem likely to be the wiring, either.”

John waited.

“Anyway, I was just wanting to pick Sherlock’s brain about why someone might bother to burn Markham’s things, seeing as Sherlock didn’t find any of it useful. But he was in something of a rush.”

“Yes, well, he’s got work and so have I, so you might do better trying him when he gets back,” said John. He didn’t like the sense that he was being rude, but he still felt nettled by Sherlock’s behavior that morning, and Lestrade’s inquiry—or lack of it—was making him uncomfortable besides. John knew he was terrible at lying, and if cornered he might say something that gave everything away.

_Well, not everything_ , he reasoned. He didn’t know enough to give _everything_ away. Just enough to get himself and Sherlock in trouble.

But then, from the way Sherlock was carrying on, they were in trouble already.

“Are you all right?” Lestrade asked, and John realized his expression had probably tipped the inspector off.

“Fine,” John told him. “I just . . . have work . . .”

“Here?”

“No, at the clinic,” said John as an awful thought crossed his mind. “Why? Did he—?”

“He told me to keep you here,” Lestrade confirmed. “Nice ring, by the way.”

John glanced at his hand then looked away, blushing but uncertain why the compliment embarrassed him. “Well, I do have work,” he said stubbornly. “So unless there’s something else I can do for you, Inspector . . .”

Lestrade nodded his understanding. “I’ll phone you if I think of anything else.”

John returned the nod, although he was still unable to look Lestrade in the eye and only knew the inspector had gone by the soft click of the door as it closed behind him.

~*~

JOHN STOOD THERE for some while; it was too early yet to go over to the clinic. His mind wandered; first, his gaze having landed on the computer, idly wondering what Mycroft might want with it, then thinking he should at least shut it off . . . And he would need to leave the flat unlocked so Mycroft could get in . . . Not that locked doors seemed likely to prove much of an obstacle for him. But John didn’t want to be present when Mycroft turned up, either; he didn’t like the way the older Holmes brother looked at him as if trying to pin him in place with his eyes.

So then John thought maybe he could go treat himself to breakfast, thereby making himself scarce, since he had no idea what time Mycroft might drop by. If he were coming before going to his office (though it was completely the wrong direction), then he might turn up any time now. Better to be gone.

And then it occurred to John that he could just go after Sherlock. Make sure his . . . boyfriend? John tested the word in his brain . . . didn’t get into any especial trouble. Or, failing that, at least make sure Sherlock wasn’t alone when trouble snared him. It would peeve Sherlock, and John wasn’t in the mood to start another fight, nor did he want to make things more complicated than they already appeared to be, but he couldn’t help but worry a little. Or a lot.

At any rate, Sherlock would have the gun. He’d taken it, hadn’t he? He must have. He wouldn’t be idiot enough to go on this errand without it. But just to prove it to himself, John went to where his jacket hung by the door and reached into the pocket. 

The gun was there.

The gun John should have used on Moriarty the night before, damn his lack of wits at the time. The least John could do now would be to bring it to Sherlock’s aid in case he had need of it. He pulled his jacket down and slipped it on, then opened the door only to find himself face-to-face with Mycroft Holmes.

Mycroft blinked at John a couple of times before John had the sense to step back and out of his way. As he entered, Mycroft held out a set of car keys, though it took John a minute to realize he was supposed to take them. “I’ve had Sherlock’s car sent up like he asked. Changed the plates to be safe. But if you value your life, I suggest you find a way to get him to let you drive.”

“Um, all right,” said John, slipping the keys into the pocket not inhabited by his gun. “There’s the computer,” he added, only to win a look from Mycroft that suggested he thought John might be a tad mentally deficient. “I mean, of course that’s it,” John amended. “You know that. Do you need . . . help with it or anything?”

But Mycroft’s attention was now centered on the ring John wore. “He gave you that?” he asked sharply.

“Hm?” Though there could be no question of whom Mycroft spoke; Sherlock was the only thing they had in common. Still, John couldn’t help but feel that there was a right answer and a wrong one, and that the truth would somehow also fall on the side of “wrong.”

“The ring,” said Mycroft, who was turning a bit pink under his collar.

“. . . Yes.”

“And I suppose he told you it belonged to our father?”

John gave his head a little shake. “No.”

“Mother had it made for him,” Mycroft told him. He was staring openly at John’s hands now, and John fought the urge to shove them in his pockets or put them behind his back—anything to hide them from Mycroft’s inspection.

“Sherlock must have had it sized then,” Mycroft said after a moment. “Father’s hands were larger than yours.” And with that he turned his attention back to the computer on the desk, checking that it was powered off and ready for removal.

But John said, “No, I don’t think so.” When Mycroft turned his steely gaze on him once more, John explained, “I don’t think he put that much thought into it. I mean, it would have taken time to—to have it sized. I don’t think . . .” But John wasn’t sure what he did or didn’t think.

All at once Mycroft reached out and seized John’s left hand, turning it palm up. “There. The jeweler did his best to keep the design uninterrupted, but there’s still a visible seam. It was sized.” He released his grasp and took up the computer. “The ring was made for Father; he had no reason to size it.”

“Well, maybe Sherlock sized it for himself,” John retorted, suddenly feeling defensive. For some reason, the idea that Sherlock had gone to the trouble . . . Sherlock, who never put himself out for anyone, who wouldn’t even go to the grocery . . . It shook John at the core to consider the possibility that Sherlock might have had the ring sized for him.

Mycroft merely raised an eyebrow. “Maybe,” he said. “And so you and Sherlock must have the same size hands.” He went to the door. “I don’t suppose I should ask where he is. But I might wonder why you aren’t with him.”

“I was just—” John began, prepared to explain he’d been on his way to help Sherlock, but Mycroft was already gone.

Sighing, John wondered whether he should take the Tube or a cab to Lambeth. The Tube would take longer but felt less conspicuous. And something told John he should attempt to keep things low-key. Yet time seemed to be a factor in this whole affair. But as John turned to fetch his wallet, a jingle from his jacket pocket reminded him of Sherlock’s car keys.

Which meant, of course, he had a car.

John decided he’d go one better by bringing his and Sherlock’s bags down and putting them in the car directly, thus saving them a later trip. He only hoped he’d be able to tell which car was Sherlock’s.

He needn’t have worried. Waiting in front of their flat was a silver Ferrari F430 Spider with its top up.

“Not conspicuous at all,” John muttered. It took some creativity on his part, but he finally managed to stuff their bags into the boot at the front of the car. He was trying to figure out how to fold himself into the driver’s seat when Mrs. Hudson appeared at the door to their building. She held a small cool box in her hand.

“Sherlock said you two were going away,” she said. “In style, too, I see.”

John looked at the car again. It seemed like a remarkably bad choice for anyone trying to get around without drawing attention. Though John supposed Sherlock had not chosen the car with that particular feature, or lack thereof, in mind at the time.

“Made you something for the drive,” Mrs. Hudson went on, stepping forward to offer John the cooler. “And don’t worry about the flat; I’ll keep it right and tight for you. Will it be a long trip?”

“I don’t . . .” John wasn’t sure where he was going to fit the box. It could go on the passenger seat for now, but once both he and Sherlock were in the car, one of them was probably going to have to sit with it on his lap. “I don’t know,” he said now with more alacrity. It was time to get moving in any case; let other things take care of themselves.

Except John wasn’t entirely sure he knew how to drive a Ferrari. Was it the same as any other car?

“Where are you going?” asked Mrs. Hudson.

“I don’t know,” John said again, but when he saw the curious expression on the landlady’s face he was quick to add, “It’s a surprise, I think.”

Mrs. Hudson’s countenance cleared into a broad and knowing smile. “Well, you lads have fun.”

“Yes. We will,” John replied absently, and with a small grimace he got into the car. Mrs. Hudson gave him a wave, and he suddenly understood that she would probably miss them while they were away. While under typical conditions he and Sherlock would be considered the worst of tenants, Mrs. H enjoyed drama and the perception of excitement, and she also liked having people to look after. In her world, they were probably all part of one of her television melodramas. He forced a smile and waved back, and satisfied, Mrs. Hudson retreated.

John was relatively sure he knew how to get to Lambeth Palace; he knew the general direction at any rate and thought there might be signs besides. But when he started the car, it first informed him that he’d arrived at his destination then asked if he wanted to input a new one.

“Oh. Um . . .”

“I’m sorry,” the car said. “I didn’t understand your answer. Would you like to input a new destination?”

“Yes,” said John, feeling somewhat stupid sitting there talking to a car. Even if it was a very nice car.

There was a stretch of silence, and John began to wonder whether the car hadn’t heard him and if he should just go ahead and start driving. But as he sorted out how to use the paddle shifters, the car instructed him, “State your destination.”

John hesitated. He almost felt like he might get in trouble for saying it aloud.

“State your destination,” the car said again. Did it sound more irritable this time? So John cleared his throat and said, “Lambeth Palace.”

If he expected the car to scold him, he was disappointed. Instead, all it said was, “Please wait while I calculate your route.”

“Thanks,” said John. A minute later the car was issuing a series of directions that John strove to follow as he got used to the way the car handled. Fifteen minutes after that, the car told him, “You have reached your destination.”

“Really?” John asked, peering out the windscreen. Now he had arrived, he was reluctant to get out of the car. Maybe he should have gone to the clinic after all and let Sherlock get on with it. But he was there now, and he couldn’t see spending another day distracted by worry, so he found a nearby car park and set off on foot, alternating between concern for Sherlock (wherever in the vicinity he happened to be) and the general welfare of a very expensive automobile left in a public car park.

It occurred to John to try texting Sherlock, but he wasn’t sure if Sherlock were in a situation where to do so would be safe for him. And it was too early to visit the Lambeth Palace Library, which was the only part of the grounds open to the public. Good God, had Sherlock broken in? The very idea made John feel sick as he strolled around the outside perimeter of the archbishop’s residence, covertly eyeing it for signs of Sherlock.

He was hurrying past the gatehouse when someone called, “Sir! Over here!” John glanced over, not sure whether he should keep walking or start running as a young man hastened toward him, clearly attempting to flag him down. In the end, John stopped altogether and waited on the pavement to see what the man wanted.

Once he’d reached where John stood, the man took a moment to catch his breath before saying, “You’re Mr. Markham’s assistant, aren’t you?”

“Mr. . . . ?” John’s mind worked furiously.

“He asked me to watch for you. Said you’d be along in a while.”

“He’s . . . here?” John asked.

“Up in the tower. Oh, not this one,” the man explained when John’s gaze traveled to the gatehouse. “Lollards. Guess he has some work there?”

“Uh, yes. He does, yes,” said John, finally putting the puzzle together. “If you could just show me?”

The man nodded, and John followed him in.

“This is the post room,” the man told John as they entered a building. “They call it that because of the post.”

John’s eyes traveled up the column to which the man referred, which seemed to buoy the wooden ceiling above.

“And here are the stairs to the tower,” the man went on. “Sorry, they’re kind of . . . Well, they were designed so that not more than one person could go up or down at a time.”

“Charming,” John murmured as he climbed after his guide, the narrow stairs turning in a dizzying corkscrew. Just when he felt sure he would suffer a headache from it, they came to the top and entered a small room with walls made partly of old oak and partly of red brick, Sherlock running his hands slowly and thoughtfully over them.

“Mr. Markham? Your assistant is here,” the young man announced.

“Thank you, Michael,” said Sherlock without bothering to turn around.

Michael glanced uncertainly at John, who gave him an encouraging nod that sent him loping back down the stairs.

“Thought you were going to the clinic,” Sherlock said.

“You told me to stay home,” John reminded him.

“Yet here you are, in neither of those places.”

“It’s clearly no surprise to you, if you had—Michael, was it?—looking for me. You told him you were Markham?”

“Might as well get some use out of our similarities,” said Sherlock, moving a fraction to his right as he continued to feel the wall.

“They’re going to figure it out. I mean, Michael might not know, but plenty of people do, and if he says anything—”

“What makes you say that?” Sherlock asked.

“Which part?”

“That people know about Markham? Seems unlikely his firm is eager to let one of their top clients know; they’d at least want to formulate some kind of plan or proposal to keep the work.”

“But the papers—” John began.

“Have you seen it in the papers?” asked Sherlock.

“No, but I also haven’t had much chance to read them.”

“Well, I don’t think the Dawsons would like to have the news of their daughter’s fiancé being found dead in bed with his lover all over the front page.”

“It’s still news,” said John. “People have the right to know.”

Sherlock turned then, his expression severe. “If there were any risk to the public, certainly. But there’s not, and they have no right to marketed voyeurism. If it were me, John, or you, would you want to see it as a headline?” He turned back to the wall without waiting for an answer. “Here, I think.”

John scanned the spot somewhat high on the brick where Sherlock’s hands had stopped. “There what?”

“The casket. It’s in this wall.”

“How do you know?”

“The brick here is uneven,” Sherlock told him.

“Maybe it was just laid badly.”

“Yes, they had one terrible mason whom they allowed to lay a couple dozen bricks before chucking him out,” said Sherlock. “And then they didn’t bother to fix it besides. That seems very plausible.”

“No need to be snide,” said John. “So you think it’s in the wall. Now what?”

“The landing,” Sherlock said, “there was a statue in a niche. Go get it.”

A fresh fount of alarm sprang up inside John. “What?”

“Quickly, John.”

“You can’t—”

Sherlock gave a snarl of impatience and strode to the door. “Fine. Stay here then.”

John swallowed his retort, folded his arms and leaned against the nearest wall. Why had he bothered to come? Sherlock had it sorted, didn’t need his help. And yet here he was, extraneous and underfoot.

John dropped his gaze to his feet, but a flash of blue caught his eye. The ring. He wasn’t used to it yet. Oh, it was light enough that he almost didn’t realize he was wearing it. It was seeing it that threw him. And seeing it reminded John that he was there for a reason, he’d come because he cared, which was motive enough. Never mind the rest.

Sherlock returned with a half-meter or so stone statue of some saint, or maybe a late archbishop. He went to the wall, felt again to be sure, then hefted the icon and struck.

Instinctively, John looked to the door, worried the noise would bring Michael, or anyone, really.

Using the base of the statue, which was the heaviest part, Sherlock hit the wall twice more, at which point the bricks began to give. Sherlock set the statue down to pull at the loosened blocks with his hands.

John glanced one more time at the door, stretching his ears for the telltale sound of footsteps on the staircase. Nothing. Then he turned and looked at the statue. “It didn’t break,” he remarked.

Sherlock spared a glance. “Yes, it’s a miracle,” he replied dryly. “Here, help me.” He began handing down bricks that had come free, and John dutifully stepped forward to take them, stacking them neatly (and quietly) on the floor.

“Ah, there you are,” Sherlock said once they’d cleared a dozen or so bricks. He reached into the hole he’d excavated and pulled out a small casket made of carved and age-tarnished silver, very like the one Anna had held in the painting.

“But what is it?” John asked.

“A reliquary. The Templars were said to have collected many, especially while they occupied the Temple Mount, which may very well be where this one is from. Clearly the Martlets feel they have a right to it.”

“Why wall it up?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Someone had a reason for hiding it, and then it was probably forgotten.”

“By everyone but the Martlets,” said John.

“Who knows how long they’ve been working to get it back,” Sherlock agreed. “It must have been quite a blow when Markham refused. To be so close . . .”

“So what will you do with it?” John asked.

“Give it to Mycroft; he’ll know how to get it wherever it needs to go.”

The name brought to John’s mind the strangeness of that morning, which already seemed to have happened so long ago, even though it hadn’t been more than two hours. “The ring,” he said, though he turned to look at the brilliant blue slice of sky that hovered in one of the room’s tiny windows. “Mycroft said it was your father’s.”

Sherlock made a non-committal sound before asking, “And was he angry?”

“I can never tell with him,” John admitted, then turned a hard gaze on his companion. “Why? Was your giving me the ring a lark to rile your brother?”

Sherlock blinked rapidly, surprised by the turn in conversation. “No. Upsetting Mycroft would only be a side benefit.”

John snorted and looked away again. “Did you have it sized?”

“I had to guess,” Sherlock confessed, “but I’m pretty familiar with your hands. Grab the statue,” he added as he carried the casket to the door. “We should at least put it back.”

Sighing, John hoisted the statue and followed Sherlock down the turning staircase until they came to the landing about halfway down. Sherlock gestured wordlessly to the niche, and John returned the unidentified saint to his rightful place, silently asking for absolution on Sherlock’s behalf for having misused the holy icon. Not that John was a superstitious or even very religious man; he simply believed in erring on the side of caution.

That done, the pair continued down to the post room, where Michael had evidently felt the need to wait for them, shifting nervously from foot to foot. Even as John and Sherlock exchanged an uncertain glance, Michael’s gaze fell on the reliquary that Sherlock held, and the young man pulled a gun from inside his coat. John reached for his in return, but Sherlock shook his head slightly, so John was left clenching his fists in anxious frustration.

“Pretty new at this,” Sherlock observed, taking in Michael’s trembling hand.

“Just give it to me,” said Michael.

“And whose team are you on, exactly?” John asked.

With his free hand, Michael reached into his trouser pocket and produced a signet ring.

“This is your initiation,” said Sherlock. “And if I don’t give this to you, if you fail, will they kill you?”

Michael swallowed hard.

“For God’s sake, Sherlock, he’s just a kid,” said John.

“How do they choose, I wonder,” Sherlock mused. “Is it a matter of convenience? Someone in the right place at the right time to do the job they want done?”

“I don’t know,” answered Michael, his voice as shaky as his hands. “It doesn’t matter. I just—I need that.”

“Then by all means, take it,” said Sherlock, holding it balanced in one hand. “There’s no need to shoot anyone.”

Michael’s eyes darted from Sherlock to John and back. Then, apparently deciding there was no trick involved, he stepped forward. But as he reached for the silver casket, a shot rang out, shattering glass in a nearby window.

Immediately, John had his own gun in hand. Military training kicking in, he looked to the broken window and tried to discern where the shooter might be now and from what direction the next attack might come. Was there more than one assailant?

He didn’t realize he’d stepped in front of Sherlock until the detective said grimly from behind him, “We should go.”

John looked over his shoulder at Sherlock’s pale, drawn face, then down at where Sherlock’s gaze was aimed. Michael lay on the floor, blood blooming across his chest. John moved as if to go to him but restrained himself; he could do nothing for the young man now.

“Now, John,” said Sherlock.

John looked again to the window. What was the shooter waiting for? A better vantage? Although it had been a common enough condition in Afghanistan, John couldn’t like not knowing what they were up against.

“I have the car, your car, it’s in a car park not far from here,” John said, his voice low and quick.

“Lead the way.”

John went to the door, hesitated. He couldn’t very well go out there with a gun in his hand, but he didn’t relish stepping out unarmed. He pocketed his firearm but kept his hand ready in his jacket. Then, with a deep breath and muscles tensed to respond to any potential assault, he pushed open the door.

But there was nothing.

“Where are they?” he breathed.

“I don’t suggest we wait to find out,” said Sherlock as he joined him outside. John noted how tightly his companion held the reliquary, how white his knuckles were.

“It can’t be the Martlets,” John reflected as he walked quickly while trying not to break into a run the way his pumping adrenaline was urging him to. “Why would they kill one of their own?”

Sherlock, meanwhile, was slowly relaxing. “They wouldn’t,” he said. “And if it were Moriarty, we’d be dead already.”

“Who then?” John asked.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock sighed. “At this rate, I’ll never be out of debt to him.”

“Mycroft?” John echoed. “Why—”

“I phoned him last night when we got back to the flat. He knows the circumstances we’re laboring under.”

They had come to the car park, where Sherlock’s car stood out like a polished jewel among stones. Sherlock went directly to it, stopping beside the driver’s door and holding his hand out expectantly while cradling the casket under his other arm.

Because he was still scanning the area in search of possible danger, John did not instantly respond. It took Sherlock snapping his fingers and declaring, “It’s fine, John, for the moment. But the sooner we go the better.”

Reluctantly, John handed over the keys. “So we’re taking it to Mycroft?”

Sherlock unlocked the doors, and both he and John climbed into the car. “I trust you loaded our bags?”

John was trying to figure out what to do with both Mrs. Hudson’s cool box and the casket that Sherlock had handed over to him. “Yes . . .” He finally managed to get the box behind his feet while holding the reliquary on his lap; not a comfortable arrangement, but the best he could do.

“Then we’ll visit Mycroft at his office and leave from there.”

“You couldn’t go for something with more space?” John wondered aloud.

“Something fast suits our purpose,” Sherlock told him, and putting the car in reverse, he gunned it backward at what should have been (to John’s way of thinking) an impossible turning radius, before tearing forward out of the car park, heading for Whitehall.


	8. Chapter 8

SHERLOCK DID NOT wait to be buzzed, waved or escorted into his brother’s building; he sailed through the common areas and past a number of raised eyebrows, John hurrying nervously in his wake, casket in hand.

When Sherlock threw the door to Mycroft’s office open (under ignored vocal protest of his receptionist), the older Holmes did not even look up from the papers he was reading—or attempting to read, given that he kept moving his glasses up and down his nose as he tried to find a distance to his liking. “You have it?” Mycroft asked.

“Why did you shoot the boy?” Sherlock demanded.

“What? Oh.” Mycroft sat back in his chair and removed the useless spectacles. “He pulled a gun on you.”

“He wouldn’t have used it,” said Sherlock.

“He would,” Mycroft countered. “Anyway, he wasn’t one of us, whatever he might have told you.”

“Us,” Sherlock echoed flatly. “But you’re no Martlet.”

Mycroft only blinked at him. “Set it on the desk there, if you would, Doctor,” he told John, though his eyes never left his brother.

“You said you weren’t,” Sherlock challenged.

“I said I didn’t wear a ring. Novices do, for the first two years. I have one for you, if you want it. I presume you don’t want Markham’s; might be bad luck or some such.”

Moving slowly, not wanting to draw attention to himself, John placed the reliquary on Mycroft’s desk. He glanced uncertainly at Sherlock and recognized in the set jaw, clenched fists and heaving chest the symptoms of a man struggling to keep a leash on his temper. John decided to step in with a question of his own.

“If Michael wasn’t a Martlet, then who was he?”

“One of Moriarty’s,” Sherlock said, continuing to stare down his brother.

“You’d think he’d send someone better than that,” said John.

“It’ll be a game to him,” Mycroft said. “He won’t send his best because he doesn’t want them to succeed.”

Sherlock finished the thought. “He wants to be the one to do it.” He looked to John. “We should leave.”

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Mycroft asked. “I have more options for helping you if you stay.”

But Sherlock was already turning toward the door. “I owe John some time away. And I haven’t asked for your help, have I?”

“Your ring?” Mycroft queried.

“Thank you, but no.”

“Don’t make an enemy of them, Sherlock,” Mycroft advised gravely. “You can’t afford more than the one you already have.”

“Tell them I’ll send them a bill,” Sherlock told him as he opened the door. “And that next time they have need of my services, they should ask me outright.”

As John moved to follow Sherlock out, he glanced back at Mycroft and paused when caught by the man’s steely glare.

“I’m entrusting him to you, John. Don’t disappoint me.”

John gave a short nod; it was no new task, after all, though the stakes had risen dramatically. Then he slipped out of the office, rushing to catch up to his companion.

~*~

“OH, GOD,” JOHN moaned. “OhGodohGodohGod—”

“Do you want me to stop?”

“Nnnnn . . .”

“You could at least open your eyes.”

John lifted one lid a fraction, closed it again quickly. “I’m going to be sick.”

Sherlock took this as a signal to accelerate. “Not in the car.”

They’d only been off the Shuttle a short while, traveling now through Belgium, Sherlock having chosen a direction at random. John was sure the view would be lovely, if only he could stomach seeing it fly past at 160 kph. Maybe more. He was too afraid to even peek at the speedometer.

“Maybe I should drive for a while?” he suggested weakly.

Sherlock did not deign to answer, and John sank a little lower in his seat.

“You’re going to end up under the dash before long,” Sherlock remarked. “Maybe you should eat something? What did Mrs. Hudson send along?”

“God, no, I can’t—” John began, but then his mobile phone rang and Sherlock very nearly ran off the road.

“ _What was that?!_ ”

“My phone,” John said, feeling his pocket, trying to find it without having to look.

“You brought your phone. John, I told you _not_ to bring your phone!”

In his defensiveness, John forgot to be afraid and finally opened his eyes. “I thought I might need it to find you this morning.”

“Wouldn’t have done you much good, since I don’t have mine.”

“How was I supposed to kn—”

The window beside John lowered. “Throw it out.”

“What?”

“ _Throw it out!_ ”

“It has all my—”

Sherlock reached over and the car swerved dangerously.

“Jesus! Fine! Just focus on your driving!” John shouted as he released his phone through the window, the swift air passing around the car grabbing it like so many hands and sweeping it away.

“We’ll get new ones,” Sherlock promised after a minute, his attempt to soothe John’s irritation. What he failed to understand was that John was not so much angry about the loss of his phone, though it rankled a bit, as angry with himself for having put them in jeopardy. He didn’t have to be a brilliant consulting detective to know mobile phones could be tracked.

And so John continued to slouch in his seat and fume.

Which in turn served to annoy Sherlock.

“You can always go home,” Sherlock finally said, though he didn’t mean it. John wouldn’t be safe at home; he’d merely be bait. But Sherlock was banking on John refusing, though the manner of that refusal surprised him.

“I promised Mycroft,” John muttered.

“You don’t owe him any favors,” said Sherlock. “Or me, for that matter.”

“You should have taken the ring,” John told him.

Sherlock snorted. “I want nothing to do with them.”

“So? You could have taken it anyway. Wouldn’t be the first time you’d done something insincere.”

“Is this because you’re worried? Mycroft won’t let them do anything.”

“You think Mycroft could stop them?” John asked.

“There’s very little he can’t do.”

“Could it be you have some fraternal affection for him after all?”

Sherlock scowled and John turned his attention to the landscape. It was lovely, the late April sun warm and bright against the green expanses dotted with early flowers of white and yellow. The road stretched on ahead and behind with no other cars in sight, and he had no idea where they were or what direction they were going. It didn’t really matter, though, did it? He would enjoy it for what it was, as long as it lasted.

“Maybe you’d prefer some other kind of ring?” John ventured.

“. . . Maybe,” Sherlock conceded.

“I mean, I’d give you my dad’s but he’s using it at the moment.” John stopped. Had that been unkind? He hadn’t meant to brag that his father was still alive while Sherlock’s wasn’t. John snuck a glance at his companion, but as usual Sherlock’s expression gave nothing away.

“We could pick something out . . . somewhere . . .” John went on, looking out the window again. “Where are we going?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock sighed. “Switzerland is nice this time of year. Ever been?”

“No.”

“Well, then,” said Sherlock, pushing the car to an even higher rate of speed, “allow me to show you what you’ve been missing.”


End file.
